


The End of Everything

by Nuideas



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Adorable Dickie, Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, De-Aged Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson-centric, Family Bonding, Fluff and Humor, Horror, Jason Todd has a Mouth, Magic, Pre-Robin Jason Todd, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Jason Todd, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuideas/pseuds/Nuideas
Summary: The End of Everything is coming and the fate of the universe finds itself resting awkwardly in the chubby little hands of a three-year-old - An Epic de-aging story with a Plot.
Comments: 91
Kudos: 127





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is an odd chapter in that the only familiar characters you'll recognize are the cities of Gotham and Bludhaven. You'll discover that the prologue is helpful for the set-up of the story. Do not let the number of characters intimidate you, however, as only a few will continue on past this chapter. I promise, it will be worth the effort. 
> 
> I will be providing chapter warnings based on content.
> 
> Warning: Language, Some Violence . . .

**58 BCE -**

"Is it over?" Nola asked, pulling her brown cloak around her more closely. It stank of Sulphur and smoke but, she didn't care. She felt lucky to be alive; they all did. There weren't many of them left . . . Priests and priestesses, druids all. "Please, say it is over."

"It will be. There is but one task that still remains," the voice of Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of death, warfare, and rebirth, rumbled and echoed around the valley still, despite her weakened state.

Of the eight Celtic and local gods who had united their powers in battle on behalf of the earth, only Morrigan endured. It was to their shock and horror that the druid priests discovered that their gods were not immortal after all, that they were just as capable of dying as their feeble human worshippers.

And if their world had been saved, their religion had not. Oh, they would soldier on, but how effective would it be when Seven of their gods and goddesses were dead, and what other gods they had had fled this land for another realm altogether. Druidism would soon be as dead as Cernunnos, Lugh, and Mandred, as dead as Airmid, Belatucadros, Anu, and Cerridwen were now. Morrigan, the last of their pantheon, planned to desert her followers soon for another place in which she could lick her wounds and contemplate her newfound mortality.

Loegaire buckled another leather strap over the lid of the iron box and tugged it tight.

"What you do is a waste, Irishman," Myrdden, one of their Welsh kind, told him from where he lounged against one of the many broken stones. It had once been part of a ring of standing stones that marked a sacred place of worship. "If that lock fails, there is nothing a few leather straps can do to hold _her_ there."

The Scots priestess, Fiona, shivered from where she huddled against the only tree within a mile at his words. The wind blew her blonde hair across her face. Too exhausted to gather it, she left it to tangle in the breeze. It was the Summer Solstice and yet it was as cold as the grave. Phelan, another of Irish blood, thrust his filthy sword into the earth and pulled his own green robe on. Whether it be from the cold he hid or to cover his torn clothes and battered body, no one knew but then, neither did they care. All were beaten today for all that they were the victors. Such a victory as this surely felt hollow to those left standing.

"It is not to hold _her_ , Myrdden," Phelan said. "It is a warning to any who foolishly think to release _her_."

Cailean laughed. It sounded harsh, as if the Scot had been strangled recently. It was entirely possible that he had been, such was the war that had been waged over many long weeks. "You would think that the lock itself would be deterrent enough," he said gruffly.

"Who could open a lock without the key?" the lovely Maeve asked. Her hands shook slightly as she nervously braided her long, mahogany hair. The skirt of her fine purple gown had been shredded and long bloody scratches could be seen marking the pale skin of her legs.

"Twasn't meant to have a key," Cynwrig reminded them. He and Belenos were Celtic druids who claimed no land as their own but traveled throughout the Isle and even to the continent beyond the Channel.

Kimball, another of the four Angles present, looked to the other priest. "Why bother with a lock at all?" he asked. "It will never be opened."

Dark of hair and eye, Rhiannon was the youngest of the survivors and shared the title of Angle druid priestess with Nola. They, along with Kimball and Sloane, were all that remained of the thousand English druid warriors that had come to join the battle. She twisted at the bit of parchment in her hands. Those hands that had once been soft and white were now filthy with ragged nails. One nail was missing altogether, she noted absently, and wondered briefly where it might have been lost.

"We will tell the story and spread the legend far and wide so that all will fear this cursed place for the rest of time immemorial," the young priestess vowed.

" ** _No_** ," Morrigan commanded. Many of the leaves on the nearby Rowan tree withered at the sound of her voice. "No one must hear of this. No legend must exist that might lure the curious. There will be those who will covet the power, believing they might find a way to control it, control _her_. As you who survive know all too well, they will never be able to do so," the goddess warned. "Instead, you will go far and wide to those who remain, warning them to forget everything that has happened here," Morrigan decreed.

Belenos scoffed, forgetting himself. "And who would be able to forget _this_?" He threw up his arms to encompass the carnage around them.

The land was riddled with thousands of charred and bleeding bodies of their fellow druids. They lay amongst those soldiers of that creature, an undead army, that had returned to a state of just plain dead upon _her_ defeat. The blood of those once living mixed with the dirt, making a mud that stained boots and tunics alike a deep reddish color. Indeed, the destruction ran many miles in every direction, but it was nothing compared to the great chasm that had ripped through their lands. Whole villages washed away in the mighty flood that followed. The landscape was no longer recognizable with nothing living inside the dead zone. At least, naught but a lone rowan tree, one goddess, and sixteen of druid warrior priests . . .

Morrigan's eyes flashed. "If they cannot forget, then vow them to silence. Cut out their tongues if need be but, for the sake of your world, this battle must never be spoken of again."

With what little power she had left, the goddess lifted the enormous stone altar, cracked and bloodied, that lay in the center of the sacred circle, setting it aside. Dermot, Gaenor, Iagan, and Uthyr taking up tools, began digging. Those who lacked a digging tool, used their swords or daggers or the edge of their broken shields.

Belenos, Cynwrig, Kimball, and Loegaire rolled rocks out of the way, lining them up outside the perimeter of the circle as yet another warning to the curious and the greedy. Myrdden, Phelan, Cailean, and Sloane would replace the weary as the four priestesses chanted, weaving powerful wards over the circle itself. Blood was drawn from the women’s palms with enchanted blades and dribbled in streams of red around the sacred ground.

The sun was dipping low in the sky when Morrigan commanded them to cease. The pit was deeper than one would dig to bury a man. The iron prison was then lowered into the depths of the earth in hope that the land would forget what dangers it harbored within its soil.

Holding out her hand, Morrigan took the parchment. "This will be all the deterrent the unwise will receive. If any should forego its warning, your world and the heavens themselves will be laid waste as did those worlds who fell to _her_ wrath before us."

Uthyr glanced to the north, toward the place where _she_ had split the sky. "And what of the portal, my lady? What if another should find its way through?"

Morrigan turned away as if his words were nothing. "None will follow," she said dismissively. "None were left to follow."

"Is that what Mab told to you?" Gaenor asked, speaking of the Fae queen who had abandoned the earth at the first hint of _her_ coming.

"It is truth," Morrigan said as she held the parchment in the direction of the rising moon. " _She_ is The End of All . . . The Raven Empress. She brings death wherever she goes."

"Is that why you alone were able to survive?" Nola asked. "Because you also are a goddess of death and war?"

"And rebirth," Sloane added.

Rhiannon gazed upon the dead surrounding them for miles in all directions. "We could use a little rebirth right about now," she murmured to no one in particular.

Dermot shook his head. "We are victorious and yet you would leave us," he accused the goddess.

She did not know why she alone still stood. Morrigan looked over the sixteen, warriors all. "You will not be alone for long," she promised. "One greater will come to replace what you have lost in time."

"One capable of defeating _her_?" Iagan asked, indicating the altar, now back in its place.

"If you could so convince Him," Morrigan muttered cryptically, "perhaps . . . but that is only if _she_ escapes her prison. I fear for this world then for _her_ mercy is not known."

With a wave of her hand, the Rowen tree bloomed anew. As they had said, she was the goddess of rebirth as well as of war and death. Seedlings sprouted around the outside of the sacred circle: Rowen trees, to guard this place. The sixteen warrior-priests gathered around her, beaten and bloodied, wearied to their very bones, but not broken. As Dermot had said, they had won against impossible odds . . .

 _This is good_ , she thought, for there was much work still left for them to do, burying the dead and spreading forgetfulness to any witnesses to the carnage . . .

While the lot of them, once their mission here is complete, would be allowed themselves to sink into the bliss of forgetfulness, one of them would be condemned to remain and remember, to guard against the day when The End of All would break free of her prison. On that cursed day, that one would be tasked with gathering the warriors of this world together once more to take up the fight for their very existence.

Twas not for Morrigan to grant immortality, not when her own was in jeopardy. She would, instead, open the gate to the _Tuatha De' Denann_ , for time worked differently there. There, the guardian would wait, forever vigilant, only returning to the land to either defend the prison or raise an army should the Raven Witch ever escape her prison – there until the end of time.

* * *

**3 Days Ago -**

Melanie Williams was excited. The legend was unheard of and, although she was tempted to write it off as a joke on the part of a locals as a way to entertain the archaeology students interviewing them, this one had a bit of truth to it. She had gone to where the drunk had indicated, and it was there, just as he said. A ring of ancient, sprawling Rowen trees guarded a broken circle, the inside of which was barren of all living things, at its center a damaged druid altar stained dark, she suspected, by the blood of ancient sacrifices . . .

No one else had been willing to give credence to his claims. They said his family had been crazy forever, claiming they had knowledge of a secret war that fought over two millennia ago. At any other time, Melanie might not have bothered with the old fairy tale but for two things: she had seen the circle for herself, going out yesterday, searching for this place despite warnings that this area had been cursed for ages, and the mass grave recently discovered at a dig a handful of miles from here that seemed to corroborate his wild allegations.

No one else believed him. No one else had bothered to check his story but, Melanie had and now she did.

She was there in this obscure part of Wales with a number of other students from Gotham University that were picked to accompany their professor on an archaeological dig nearby on Roman ruins found in the area eight months ago. They had only arrived six weeks ago to assist with the project. As exciting as that was, if this story had even a shred of evidence to back it, it could be bigger than all the Roman digs combined. After all, that the Romans had been to the British Isles was a well-known fact. This dig was just one piece of many that merely substantiated what everyone already knew. But an unknown war that happened long before the Romans were ever a presence here . . .

Would Professor Whitmore listen to her, though? She couldn't go to him without proof. Melanie was the youngest on the trip, only a second-year student. The only reason she had been given permission to come along was because a third-year student had gotten caught cheating on an exam and been expelled. Everyone else was her senior by at least two years or more.

"It might as well be twenty years," she grumbled under her breath.

She couldn't do this by herself, however. That was why she searched out graduate student, Gary Middleton, to help her. He had been disinterested when she had first come to him with this wild story. Now that she found the location, though, she'd had no trouble talking him into accompanying her to the spot.

Melanie brightened when she found Gary standing beneath the Rowen trees. He had a shovel with him. Her eyes widened as she realized that he was going one better.

"Gary," she called as she hurried over. "You found the place okay?" Despite being here the day before, Melanie had somehow managed to pass by it several times on her return. Thankfully, they were both here now.

"It was a little rough-going there for a while. Got lost for a bit but . . . Man, this is fantastic, Melanie," Gary grinned at her. "It's just like you described."

"What's with the shovel," she asked. "If this is to be a legitimate dig, we have to report it. There will be paperwork, licenses, and permissions to go through first."

"Do you really think there will be something here," he teased her gently. "An iron box that holds a mysterious token of good luck that's supposed to be older than the Roman settlement on the other side of the village?"

Melanie frowned. "He didn't really say it was good luck exactly . . ."

Gary laughed. "Melanie, come on. The guy's a drunk. He and his family have been telling this story for years. Not even the local vicar believes him."

"Really? Then, why did _you_ come?" she asked, glancing at the shovel pointedly. "Why did you bring a shovel with you if you didn't believe it?"

* * *

Gary squinted over the scene in front of them. The barren circle of broken stones looked like no human had ever touched it in centuries, the ancient Rowens were obviously planted to hide this place from curious eyes. Even with GPS coordinates from Melanie to guide him, he had trouble finding it. It was like you weren't supposed to notice it. Despite what he told Melanie, he felt sure that there was something of value in this place. Whether it was some rumored magical token that promised power or riches or success, or just some kind of ancient relic, it was worth something to somebody, somewhere.

Middleton had debts. He had loans. He would be graduating in the spring and there wasn't exactly a waiting list of jobs for newborn archaeologists. But he knew a guy . . . Gary had met him four years when he had been chosen to attend a dig in Egypt during summer, a guy who knew how to find things and better yet, knew how to sell them.

He picked up his shovel and walked into the ring, a chill washing over him. Gary decided that it was adrenaline, excitement over the find they were going to make. Melanie followed him out slowly, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. Cold or nervous, he figured. He turned around upon reaching the altar. There was evidence that hinted that the druids made human sacrifices here under the full moon. He didn't know for certain if that were true, the ancient people didn't leave a written record, but there were numerous written accounts by others that they did.

Of course, Gary's expertise was Egyptian artifacts and the civilizations of the Middle East, not druids and ancient Celtic lore or even Roman settlements. He was only here because it would look good on his resume.

"Where did he say it was buried?" Gary asked.

"U-Under the alter," Melanie said quietly. "Gary, this is wrong."

"It's only wrong if we find something," he assured her. "We're not going to find anything."

"Then why . . .?"

"I'm doing you a favor," he said. "If you were to go back and tell Whitmore about this place, he's not going to believe you and you're going to look ridiculous."

Melanie's eyes widened, worried.

"But what would be worse, would be if Whitmore _did_ believe you and started the paperwork to get permission authorizing a dig here and then, after a couple of years and thousands of dollars later, they find nothing . . ." Gary seemed to slump. "You don't want _that_ mark on your record. Trust me, Melanie, that would be the end for you, even before you truly began."

There was movement through the trees as someone hallooed.

"Anyone here? Hello?"

"Over here," Gary called out.

As another man entered the circle, Gary smiled. "Glad you could make it? Have any trouble?"

This was the fellow he had met in Egypt four years ago. They had been working together on projects ever since, even if Skip himself wasn't approved, Gary would always work with him on the side. Another year of this, and Gary would not only be able to pay off his debts but would have a little nest egg to tide him over in hard times. In fact, if there _were_ any truth at all to Melanie's claim, he could be set for life.

"Locating it? A bit or I'd have been here sooner," the other man answered in the accent of a local. He was tall and broad through the shoulders and had tanned skin that stopped at his elbows, indicating he worked outside a lot. "So, this is the place. Huh? I've lived in the next county all my life and never had a clue this place existed. Who's the girl? Is she the one you told me about?"

Melanie stepped backward as the stranger's hard gaze swiveled towards her. "Who is that? Gary, you weren't supposed to tell anyone!"

The man took his floppy hat off and ran a hand through his dishwater blond hair. "Well, now, I'm not just anyone," he grinned. "My name's Skip. I've worked on sites like this most of me life."

"Are you an archaeologist?" Melanie asked skeptically.

"You could say that," Skip answered her cheerfully. "I am more of a procurer of a sort. I have clients that have interests in items of profound historical significance."

Melanie frowned. "You mean like museums."

"Museums, collectors, amateur historians, purveyors of antiquities." Skip picked up a bag of tools and ambled over to them. He swung the bag onto the altar, the other two wincing at the clatter.

"Take it easy, Skip," Gary warned. "This place didn't survive centuries only to have you destroy it in five minutes."

The man laughed. "This bugger is solid marble, chum. I doubt there's much I could do to hurt it." He turned in a circle, whistling. "Even if I did, who'd notice? This place has already been demolished." He pointed out the large crack in the center of the alter

"Grab a shovel and help. We have to be back at the Roman dig in the morning," Gary told him.

"You sure there is something here worth all this effort?" Skip asked, eyeing the ring critically.

"According to Melanie, there is," Gary told him as he picked up the shovel. "But we won't know for sure until we dig." He looked up at her. "Did he say if it was actually under the altar or next to it?"

Melanie blinked. "Um, he said _under_ the altar, ' _down further than one would normally dig to bury a man_ '." That last bit had been a quote. She looked at the slab of solid stone doubtfully. "We'd need a crane to move that thing. It has to weigh a couple of tons, at least."

Skip tilted his head as he considered it. After a moment, he nodded. "Right. Not going to be a problem."

"How do you figure that?" Melanie asked, uncertainly. She didn't know this other guy from Adam.

"The altar is what . . . Seven and a half, eight feet in length?" Gary smiled. "Whatever is under it would likely be in the center, so we'll just dig a hole next to it and when we get to the proper depth, we'll dig inward, under the slab."

"What if the sides collapse under the weight," Melanie argued.

"We'll prop it if we have to," Gary said. "It will hold, trust me."

"I _did_ trust you," Melanie snapped, staring at the two men. "Now, I'm not so sure."

"Seems strange that I've traveled the world in search of treasure and here I am, digging for it in me own back yard." Skip shook his head as he sank his shovel into the ground. "So, what's the word, mate? What are we after?"

"A token of some sort," Gary said as he joined in with purpose. They were on a time crunch as it was. "Supposed to bring power and success to the one who wields it."

Melanie stepped back to avoid being hit by dirt. "That's not what he said," she corrected.

"Close enough," Gary shrugged. "Why else would there be a war waged for it? Why else would it be buried in an iron box?"

Skip's eyebrows rose even as he tossed another spade full of dirt to the side. "War? What war? I've lived here all my life and never heard tell of a war in these parts. Southeast of here, yeah, and up north, sure, but not 'round _here_. This here is just a bit of nothing. Anything and everything of import happened at least a hundred kilometers away."

"There is that Roman settlement we're here to excavate," Melanie reminded them.

Skip scoffed. "Roman settlements are a dime a dozen in the British Isles. My uncle up north tripped over one just last week."

* * *

Melanie had moved around the altar, leaning against it as she watched the two men dig. It wasn’t long before they were chest deep. "This war was supposed to have happened a couple of thousand years ago, or something like that, before the Romans came to Briton,” she told the new guy.

"Wait! Have you been talking to _Cadwallader_?" Skip stopped digging and glared at Gary. "I thought you said there'd be something of value here. Cadwallader is naught but some crazy drunk. He, his father, and grandfather have all been talking about this secret history that literally no one else bloody knows about. Families that have lived here for as long as people inhabited the Isle, and no one remembers any of this except for _their_ family."

Melanie scowled, coming to her subject's defense. "He said that they were all told to forget about it. That the priests were all telling them to never talk about it or spread the story to their children or children's children. He says his ancestor chose to rebel against the priests' authority. A great war occurred here, and they were determined to pass the story down to the eldest living child in order to continue the memory."

" _After two bloody thousand years_? How much of what was passed down had been altered? The story he tells, if there were even a shred of truth behind it, couldn't possibly be accurate after so long of time being passed down by word of mouth alone. They didn't keep written records back then, you know."

"Well, he was right about _this_ place. No one else seemed to know about it, no one else could ever find it, and yet here we are," Melanie argued. "So, that much appears to be accurate."

"He could have stumbled onto it at any point and made up his story," Gary stopped digging now.

Melanie rolled her eyes. "This place has been here for centuries, quite possibly for the two thousand years he claims, and yet no one else has ever just stumbled upon it before. How likely is that?"

Skip paused as he thought about that. "It _was_ hard to locate. I think I walked around here for more than an hour before I heard your voices." He looked around at the enclosed area suspiciously.

Melanie shrugged. " _I_ only found it again because I have been here before but, even then, I passed by the spot at least three times."

Gary laughed. "What? You two talk as if you think it's been _enchanted_. Are you saying this place has a spell on it to confound any who would try to find it?"

Skip looked a little nervous, a total reversal of his previous temperament. "You haven't been in this business as long as I have without running into a few unexplainable things."

Gary shook his head. "You know, I was thinking that mass grave they located between here and the ruins could have come from this war that drunk guy was talking about rather than plague victims like they initially thought."

"Do they still think that?" Melanie became thoughtful. "Russ said that they found some old weaponry this morning that looks to predate the Roman settlement. Did they get the results to the carbon dating back yet?"

"I don't know. Maybe by now they did," Gary said, putting his shovel back into the dirt. "Anyway, I thought that the weapons and a large mass of dead bodies coupled with the rumors of an ancient war was reason enough to check this place out."

Silence reigned for a while, the only sounds were that of the wind and that of digging. Melanie went to get some water from the car and got lost again on her way back. The idea that there was a spell over the land to prevent trespassers flitted through her mind again. She wasn't superstitious but she agreed there _was_ a strange atmosphere surrounding the circle.

Making it through the Rowan trees, Melanie entered the circle and found the guys had dug down nearly twelve feet. She tossed them each some water.

"You were gone a long time," Gary commented.

"I got lost," she muttered, “again.”

Skip glanced pointedly at Gary at this announcement, but the younger man waved the look away.

"How are you going to get out of there," she asked curiously.

"We dug out handholds. Hey, you said it was buried deeper than one would normally go, right?" Gary asked. "What do you think? Should we go deeper or is this good enough?"

"Hell, no," Skip groused. "This is good enough," he said, wiping his brow with his dirty arm. He left a streak of mud across his forehead. He jammed his spade into the soil between his feet and drank his water in one, long draw. "A man wouldn't bother digging down past six feet, the depth of a common grave, lest he was mining for ore."

"So, then we start tunneling under the alter here," Gary tossed his empty bottle to Melanie, then used his spade to mark the wall of soil at nine feet.

"Be careful," Melanie warned. "That altar could still fall on you."

"We'll keep it small to start with," Gary told them as he began digging again, this time tunneling beneath the altar itself. "We can always enlarge it should we need to."

Skip tossed the dirt Gary pulled free out of the hole and soon they fell into a rhythm. It wasn't long before the spade hit something hard. Gary stabbed the earth again as a muffled clang rang out. Shared a grin, the two men began tearing the soil away from around the obvious metal object, hooting with triumph.

Melanie peered into the hole. "Careful that you don’t damage it."

"I’ll be damned! It looks like that crazy drunk was right," Gary crowed. "It’s definitely some kind of metal box."

It was heavy and solid, taking the strength of both men to drag it from its resting place. Was it as old as they’d been told? Who knew? Who cared? Gary and Skip tied a rope around it, then Skip climbed out of the hole. Grabbing the rope with Melanie, they pulled as Gary pushed and, eventually, managed to wrestle the box out of the hole.

Scrambling out, Gary’s weariness was forgotten in the excitement of the find. "Are we going to open it? Let's see what's inside."

It was smaller than they had expected, heavy but not unmanageable. One man could handle it if he had to. They noticed the three leather straps that around the iron box. For two thousand years in age, it was inconceivable for them to be in such good shape.

Melanie frowned. "This leather should have rotted away long ago. I doubt it could be more than fifty years old judging from the looks of it."

Gary shook his head. "Whatever. The box is obviously older than that. You can tell by the primitive construction."

"Old but it's sturdy and what's more," Skip added, "it's locked up tight." He looked at the girl. "I don't suppose Cadwallader said anything about a key?"

She shook her head. "Did you find anything else with it? Maybe the key is there."

Skip snorted, cleaning his hands on his filthy pants. "Why bother to lock the box if you're just going to bury the key with it?"

Hopping back down into the hole, Gary pulled away more dirt, feeling around for a key but finding something else. "Someone left something else here alright. Maybe it will contain a clue to the key’s location."

Climbing out, he held a filthy parchment scroll in his hand, the rotted remains from a cloth it had been wrapped in fell away.

"No key but it might tell us where it is or what the box holds," he panted.

"That scroll is parchment, isn't it?" Melanie asked, disappointed. "It hardly looks more than a few decades itself."

"Yeah, unfortunately, way too good of shape to be the age the drunk was claiming," Gary agreed before laughing, "Unless you think this might be enchanted as well?"

"Open it up," Skip ordered, ignoring the snide remark.

They were interrupted by the call of a bird. Not just any bird, it startled them with its size. It perched in the branches of a Rowan tree, turning its head to look at them first out of one eye, then out of the other.

"Whoa! Look at the size of that thing," Gary gulped. “Is that a raven? Seems too big to be a raven.”

"Is it dangerous?" Melanie asked, grabbing Gary’s arm.

Skip scoffed. "Nah, the thing's a scavenger. It isn't interested in the living," he smirked at her. "It's only interested in the dead."

"It's creepy," Melanie complained.

"Oh aye, it is that," Skip agreed. "All the more reason to get this box somewhere where we can pry it open. I know a guy in the next town over. Close to the airport."

The men picked up the box between them, preparing to carry it to the car. Although one could have managed, they were tired. Working together made it quicker. Before they could make it out of the circle, a voice sounded out behind them.

"Ei roi yn ôl ac yn ôl i ffwrdd." ["Put it back and back away."]

Melanie looked and blinked . . . then blinked again.

The woman stood about five foot eight with a slender build but in no way seemed frail. She wore a filthy brown cloak. Although the hood was up, her face could easily be seen. She was lovely with long, dark hair and eyes to match. She pushed back the folds of her cloak revealing silver chainmail over a green gown made from a coarse material but, most importantly, exposing a sword - a very authentic-looking sword.

Pwy ydych chi?" Skip asked. "Mae eich acen rhyfedd. O ba le yr ydych yn cenllysg?" ["Who are you? Your accent is strange. From whence do you hail?"]

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Rydych yn deall fi, onid ydych?" she asked as her left hand clutched an amulet that she wore. Her right hand continued to hover noticeably above the hilt of her sword. ["You understand me, do you not?]

"Aye"

"Yna fy acen yw o unrhyw bwys. Byddwch yn gwneud fel eich wahoddasid," she snapped at him. ["Then my accent is of no importance. You will do as you are bidden."]

"What's she saying?" Melanie asked. "Who is she?"

"She's telling us to return the box and leave," Skip translated. "She didn't give a name."

Melanie licked her suddenly dry lips. "Maybe we should do as she says. How do we know she doesn't own this land? That box could be hers."

The woman frowned as the two conversed. Her grip on her amulet tightened. "You will return the box to its place and leave. Do not return."

Gary's eyebrows shot up. "You speak English?"

"I speak whatever is your language. Your speech is not unlike the Anglish."

Skip snorted. "That’s because it is English, sweetheart."

Her scowl grew fierce. "Much time must have passed since last I was drawn here, but it makes no difference when the message remains the same," she waved the discussion away. "Return the box to its place and go."

"Or what?" Skip challenged.

In a blink of an eye, the woman's sword was pointing it their direction. "Or else . . ." she left the warning hanging.

The trio eyed it warily. It certainly looked like the real thing. The light glinted off the edge, showing it had been well-cared for.

Melanie took a step back. "I think maybe we should do as she asks."

"Bloody hell," Skip cursed. "I didn't spend hours digging this up just to put it back because some trollop from a Renaissance festival starts waving her sword about. I've got a sword of me own, don't ye know?"

Gary shook his head. "I asked around. The national park service owns this piece of land."

"You got this?" Skip asked, letting go of the box.

"Yeah," he nodded, shifting to handle the heavy metal box on his own.

Melanie's eyes widened. "W-What are you _doing_? Just . . . put it back like she asked. Please?"

Skip turned toward the newcomer. "Lady, don't you know that you don't bring a knife to a gun fight?"

"G-Gun?" Melanie stammered. _Who the hell had Gary gotten involved with_? She slapped her hands over her ears and ran.

* * *

Skip pointed his piece at her. It should have been enough to scare her away, but she merely looked at him quizzically. Gary was already moving off with the box. If this chick was willing to do damage for it, it had to contain something of value.

"Take the box to the airport," Skip called over his shoulder, "and stash it with the shipment heading to Gotham. I've got contacts there who can move it for us."

The other man took off, huffing under the weight of the bulky treasure but when the woman moved to intercept him, Skip stepped into her way.

"Ah, ah, ah," he warned her, waving the gun in a manner sure to get her attention.

Unfortunately, it did exactly that. In a move too fast to follow, the woman flung a dagger that embedded itself in Skip's shoulder. The gun dropped from his nerveless hand as he screamed in pain. Pulling the dagger out with his left hand, Skip pointed it at the strange woman.

"I will kill you," he roared, flinging the knife at her.

The woman dodged it handily as she continued advancing. The sword whistled in the air as she spun it about her with startling ease and expertise. Skip's heart started pounding as he realized she was the real deal. She wasn't bluffing. The hard glint in her eyes told him she was more than willing to kill them to retrieve the iron box. Whatever compassion she might have had departed the moment they’d refused to give it up.

Legs suddenly weak, Skip fell to his knees. He reached blindly around his body for his weapon with his one good hand. Blood drenched his shirt front and dripped from his fingers, far more blood than there should be.

 _The dagger must have hit an artery_ , he thought numbly. He would be dead within minutes.

Black spots were winking in and out of his vision when the woman stopped in front of him.

"Who are you?" he asked, breathlessly. His vision was tunneling, and he swayed. "Who?"

She glared down at him. "I am the druid priestess, Rhiannon. You dared to disturb the box, risk all of humanity for your petty greed. Pray you that I am able to return _her_ with her prison undamaged."

Skip blinked in confusion. "Prison? . . . W-What prison? Who is this . . . _she_ you speak of?” he slurred. _Why was it so hard to breathe_?

Rhiannon snarled, raising her sword in preparation of the final blow. " _She_ is the Raven Empress, goddess of death and destruction. _She_ is, you fool," the priestess swung her sword in a powerful arc, "the End of Everything."

* * *

**Yesterday –**

Dr. Edgar Sheridan adjusted his glasses on his nose.

The day had been one disaster after another, but this one was the worst. The boxes from the Wales excavation site’s second shipment had arrived an hour ago, but only now was he able to go through it properly. God forbid should anything have broken during transport . . .

Gotham State University had partnered with her sister school located in Great Britain for this project. It was quite a large excavation, so the agreement had been that half of the items uncovered would be kept in Britain while the other half would be shipped, catalogued, studied and displayed by the University of the findings to catalogue, study, and display for its part in the excavation.

He used a crowbar to pry up the heavy wooden lid and heave it aside. He yanked out some of the packing material and picked up his clipboard containing the shipping manifest. There were several vases and other pieces of pottery that were declared intact upon the sealing of the container. There were . . . He paused.

"Oh dear," Sheridan lamented, picking up a large pottery shard.

 _Their first casualty_ , he thought sadly. _Who was the ham-handed worker who had bungled this shipment_? _How could this have happened_?

As he dug further into the depth of the container, the older man's hands bumped into something hard and - cold? Metal? The packing material around it was totally inappropriate for securing something so heavy and unforgiving as whatever this was. No wonder the vase had been damaged. He hoped that no other pieces of pottery had suffered the same results of what amounted to gross negligence upon those responsible for packing the artifacts.

To prevent further damage from shifting, Sheridan laid down his manifest and reached in with both hands to pull out the odd box. His fingers wrapped around leather straps and used them for handles to haul the box out from its hiding place. It was, indeed, heavy and he couldn't help wondering how no one noticed the weight difference between what the manifest claimed and what was reality. He set the box down on the table gently, despite its heft and bulk. It didn't take an expert to realize the box was an artifact in and of itself.

Turning on a magnifying, lighted mirror, Sheridan pulled it close. From what he could tell at first glance, the box was made of iron, although the leather was obviously a recent addition. It had icons and symbols etched into its sides . . . He turned it around. All sides, he corrected. The entire box was covered in, what was for him, was innumerable, unknown hieroglyphics. Sheridan was familiar with Egyptian picture writings but this . . . this was something different than anything he had encountered throughout his career.

 _No, wait_!

Squinting, Sheridan peered closer. This image of a bird looked familiar. Not Egyptian, obviously, but he had seen this before somewhere.

Frowning, Sheridan turned back to the container. Surely, they sent some kind of explanation for this relic. It was quite ancient. He roughly placed it in the Iron Age. So unusual, its uniqueness made it quite a valuable find. He wondered if it came from the Roman dig but couldn't imagine how it must have gotten there. The site, itself, had been dated to around 245 CE but the iron box's construction, while quite advance for all intents and purposes, appeared to be from some other period.

His hand brushed a piece of cloth. Something was wrapped up in a rag of some sort. He tugged out the parchment next with something akin to disgust. It hadn't been prepared for travel at all, he noted, determined to find the culprits and make certain they lost their jobs for their mishandling of cultural treasures of intrinsic historical value. Tugging on a pair of gloves, Sheridan laid the parchment onto the table and spread it out.

More of the strange hieroglyphics. It matched those on the box exactly, appearing to be created from the same time period but it seemed impossible. The parchment was in excellent shape for being something so old. It had to be written at a later time.

 _Uh oh, part of it **had** been damaged . . . **intentionally** so_, Sheridan thought angrily.

"Who would treat you this way?" he complained to the items.

An hour later, Sheridan thought he had a clue to the box and the parchment’s origins. The symbol he had recognized had been a druid sign of the raven. It meant death. Druids were renown for never leaving behind a written account but for all of that, there had been enough pictures carved into some of the famous stones of various standing stone circles to recognize the shape and determine that the box and the scroll had once belonged to a group of druids . . . a high probability lying with the priest class.

"Well, as fascinating as you have been," Sheridan spoke softly, "you would be much happier, I think, in Bludhaven. I know of an excellent professor of linguistics who has more than a passing interest in Celtic lore and druidism."

Sheridan pulled out a smaller box and began preparing it for transport. With care, he settled the box and parchment into its new container.

"Dr. Christian Everhardt," Sheridan whispered as he filled out the shipping label. "Professor of Linguistics and Ancient Studies at the Bludhaven Museum of Natural History."

* * *

**3 hours Ago –**

"Where is it?" Gary demanded, as he pressed the knife into the skin of the professor's throat. A single drop of blood slithered down the blade’s cold surface. "I've been through too much and traveled too far to fail now."

Glasses askew, Sheridan’s blood ran down from a cut on his forehead. "I-I s-sent it to Bludhaven . . . to Dr. E-Everhardt there," he stammered, his voice quavering. "Christian Everhardt."

 _May his friend forgive him for this one day_ . . .

Sheridan recognized the graduate student but chose to keep the knowledge to himself. The younger man had obviously seen better days if his ragged appearance was anything to go by. Bruises and a fresh scar ran across Gary's face from the corner of his left eye to his chin.

If the man were so far gone as to deal in stolen antiquities, what would stop him from pressing that knife until he’d slit the old man's throat? He might still kill him if only to protect his identity from the authorities. Any hope to live through this depended on Sheridan’s ability to play stupid.

He wondered whether Whitmore knew he had a viper in his midst. _Well, he would soon enough_ , Sheridan thought, _if I somehow survive this night_.

Sheathing his weapon, Gary Middleton struck the professor across the temple. Sheridan knew before he hit the floor that he would live another day . . . _But would Everhardt_? He slipped beneath the darkness unable to answer the question.


	2. Not What He Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is Dick's birthday and the wrong box is opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Strong Language, Blood, Death, and Disturbing Images . . .

**Present**

Dick Grayson climbed out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. Wiping the steam from the mirror, he looked at his reflection and tried to smile. It was a half-hearted attempt that wouldn't convince anyone, let alone himself.

"Obviously, I need to give you a pep talk," he told the nineteen-year-old in the mirror.

"First thing's first, happy birthday. You have a lot to be thankful for this year, not the least is that shower - with _hot_ water for a change. Trust me. I saw the looks on those crooks faces last night while you were zip-tying them for the cops. You, my friend, were getting ripe."

Although, it wasn't the first shower he had since his blow-up with Bruce, it had been a while. It was only a week ago that he had still been living in his car. He snorted. 'Blow-up' was probably better than any other word, but it didn't accurately reflect what had happened. Truth be told, it wasn't their first argument, merely the worst.

Grabbing a comb, he ran it through his hair. It was getting long, even for him. If Bruce were here, he would say he had gotten me confused with some homeless guy. Then again, Bruce wouldn't step foot in the hole he was living in unless he was wearing a cowl at the time. Dick thought back over the last several months and the journey that had landed him here in this - _place_.

It had started with the Joker. No, that wasn't the truth; it had actually started when he had been forced to admit to Bruce that he had dropped out of college after just one semester. Bruce had been livid, of course, but it had become glaringly obvious to Dick that he wasn't cut out for the world of business and finance. Even his economics professor had agreed with this assessment.

Their relationship had already been strained because of all the time he spent with the Teen Titans. Batman had complained that Dick was too busy for Gotham anymore, that too often Robin had been unavailable when Batman needed him. Joker had helped end that argument as he did with most things, with a bullet . . . or, as he had on that particular night, with two.

He had been told he’d nearly died from that incident as one of the bullets having nicked an artery.

Dick had shrugged it off like he had all the others. It wasn't as if Robin hadn't had close calls before. Hell, Two-Face had nearly succeeded in retiring Robin permanently when he had been just starting out. _That_ one had been as close a near-death experience as any over the course of a decade while wearing the yellow cape. But for some reason, this last time, Bruce decided he’d had enough. Firing Dick from being Robin, Bruce had literally taken his cape and mask from him.

Alfred had tried to assure him that the decision had been made in Dick's own best interest, that Bruce had taken this last injury badly. Worried that Dick would get himself killed should he continue this life; Bruce had made an executive decision.

 _So, yeah_ , Dick snorted, _Bruce fired me because he **cared**_ . . .

* * *

Leaving for Titans' Tower shortly after that last argument, Dick left Robin behind. He decided to take a leave from the Teen Titans in order to 'find himself' and determine where he wanted to go in life which, in turn, had led him to Metropolis and Superman's doorstep. During his stay with Clark the crazy idea came to him to go it alone, take on a new identity, forge a new path - his _own_ path this time, one that was out from under the shadow of the Bat.

To say he and Bruce weren't talking during this period wasn't accurate. It wasn't as if they _wouldn't_ talk to one another, rather more like they just - _didn't_. Dick could have gone back to the manor at any time but for three things.

Dick's anger – He was still sore at Bruce's high-handedness. Robin was his and Bruce didn't have the right to take that away from him.

Pride was number two. Dick refused to apologize for the things he said that day. He wouldn't have said any of it had Bruce not fired him in the first place. Certain Bruce would regret everything and ask him to come back, Dick wasn't about to beg for his old job.

The third and most important thing had been what ultimately led Dick to Metropolis which was doubt . . . Doubt of what his place was now in Bruce's life.

At eighteen, Dick Grayson was no longer considered Bruce Wayne’s ward. The man had finished his obligation to the State and to Dick. That he had been willing to pay for college had been over and above what the world had expected of him. His generosity had made Bruce look good in the public's eye while dropping out of school had done much to tarnish Dick's public image, making him appear ungrateful.

But he wasn't ungrateful. Dick understood exactly where he could have ended up had Bruce not taken him in.

No, what troubled him was wondering if Batman's firing of Robin had been for reasons beyond Bruce’s concern for Dick's well-being. His mind wouldn’t let it go. Did the man that Dick had come to think of as a father not want him around anymore? Had he become a burden, an embarrassment? Was this Bruce's way of cutting Dick loose?

After this last visit to the Batcave, there were no longer any doubt lingering in Dick's mind.

Sighing, Dick moved into the bedroom of his cheap, two-room apartment to get dressed. He would have still been living in his car had he not called Alfred the week prior to request his clothes and a few other belongings be shipped to him. When the package arrived at the post office, it included an envelope filled with five thousand dollars cash, most likely from the old man's personal bank account. The funds had enabled Dick to find this apartment and made certain he could eat until he found a job.

While it was only a part-time gig as a bartender at one of the better clubs, it was income. With luck and crazy budgeting, Dick hoped to be able to repay Alfred for the loan. Of course, the older man would refuse it, insisting it was a gift, but Dick didn't feel right accepting it. He was tired of being a burden; tired of being someone else's problem . . . tired of being a charity case.

Wading into the closet, he opened a lock and removed a hidden panel, revealing what he’d been referring to lately as his ‘nest.’ Bruce could keep his cave.

Although, it had taken a chunk of Alfred’s gift money to create the secret room at the back of his walk-in closet, it was here that Dick kept the stuff for his ‘night job’. Here he stored his new costume; two sets of escrima fighting sticks, one of which incorporated pronged stun technology (thank you, Lucius); some newly-forged shurikens that he had, in a whimsical moment, dubbed 'wingdings’; a Wayne-Tech laptop dedicated to crimefighting; and some basic lab equipment he needed to analyze clues in future cases.

He’d dubbed himself Nightwing after the Kryptonian hero Clark had told him about during his last visit to Metropolis. If the name also honored the man who had taken him in, who taught him everything he knew about crimefighting, Dick shrugged that off. Bruce wouldn't see it as an honor. In fact, Bruce had made it abundantly clear that he had no interest in anything Dick was doing now.

Pulling out the new uniform, Dick dropped the damp towel on the foot of the mattress that lay in the center of the room. Furniture was going to be scarce until he received a few more paychecks from the new job, but he had more than enough to suit him at the moment. The mattress and a small dresser in the bedroom, a small kitchen table with two chairs, a lamp, and a sofa that had seen better days. Dick saw that his downstairs neighbor was intending to throw the thing away, so it had been easy to talk the guy into giving it to him rather than lugging it down four flights of stairs to the dumpster.

Walking into the living room with kitchen bump-out, Dick flicked on his police scanner as he opened the refrigerator door. Pickings were slim. He made a note pick up a few things at the grocery store tomorrow before work. Ignoring the week-old pizza, Dick took out the Chinese leftovers from the previous evening and grabbed the orange juice. No glasses meant he was drinking out of the carton, but Alfred wasn't here to disapprove.

No, if Alfred were here, Dick would be eating a gourmet meal fit for a king . . . He ignored his stomach’s complaints and flopped himself onto the musty sofa. As he ate, his mind wandered against his will to that last visit . . . 

He had been away for seven months with only the occasional phone call to Alfred, but Dick hadn't spoken to Bruce at all during that time. No matter the hard feelings Dick had when he’d left, he missed his family. He had thought that, despite the silence between them, Bruce might have been missing him, too. He had finally reached a point in which he was willing to take that first step in order to work out their differences . . . So, Dick had gone home.

 _Ugh_ , Dick grimaced, correcting himself. _Not home any longer. To the_ _manor, then_ \- _No_ , he sighed, _to_ _the Batcave_.

* * *

When the cave security had taken his code, Dick had considered it to be a good sign. Riding in on his bike, he’d begun feeling optimistic about the visit, so imagine his surprise upon seeing a dark head of hair sitting in _his_ chair at the Batcomputer.

Too short to be Bruce, too much hair to be Alfred, Dick stared at the stranger and asked, "Who are you?"

As the chair spun around, Dick's mouth had fallen open to see a boy wearing the familiar red, green, and yellow of _his_ Robin costume, right down to Dick's own mask and his short boots, gaping back at him.

"What the hell?" Dick gasped. "Who are _you_?"

The kid, he couldn't be more than fourteen or fifteen, stood up.

"I’ve got a better question; who the hell are _you_?" the teen answered with his own question, spoken with an aggressive arrogance better found on someone older, or at least several inches taller.

"I'm . . .Ro-" Dick remembered belatedly that he had shown up in his new uniform. "Nightwing," he finished. "What are you doing here and who let you wear that uniform?"

Ignoring the questions, the imposter ' _Robin_ ' sneered at him. "Nightwing, huh? Never heard of you."

Not likely since Dick had only just developed the alter-ego. In fact, this was the first time he’d worn the costume in public: a full-bodied black suit, lightly armored through the torso and forearms. A royal-blue emblem zigzagged its way across his chest and down each of the arms, ending at the two middle fingers of his gloved hands. His utility belt had been replaced with compartments found within the armored wristbands and along the top section of his boots. He had ditched the cape altogether.

"Well, I know Robin and _you're_ not him! Where's Batman?" Dick had asked in a growl. It looked like his homecoming was going to end in another argument.

 _What the hell is Bruce thinking_? _Had he gone out and recruited this kid the minute I left_?

Even if he had, the chances this kid had of being trained well enough to make it on the mean streets of Gotham were slim, let alone going up against the crazies that seemed to flock to this city. Dick hadn't even been allowed to put on his costume for the first time until he had successfully managed to put Bruce on his ass twice during their sparring.

 _Bruce is going to get this kid killed_!

"The better question would be, does Batman know _you're_ here?" The Robin-wannabe asked. He stomped down the steps to meet Dick on the vehicular turnstile. "You should go now while you can still walk."

Dick smirked. "Who's going to make me, kid? You?"

Okay, so maybe laughing out loud wasn’t such a good idea. In hindsight, Dick shouldn’t have goaded him on, but someone needed to show the kid that he wasn't ready to tango with the big boys. Just in the few minutes since he met the kid, he could tell the teen had a short fuse that led to an explosive temper. And if Dick had somehow missed the obvious signs of this, the boy proved it by launching himself at him.

Sidestepping, Dick used one hand to guide the incoming bullet train passed him. A light push had sent the boy sprawling onto his stomach, the yellow cape fluttering down over the boy's head. Furious, the kid shoved it back as he leapt to his feet. Dick admitted, if only to himself, that his replacement had the stamina to match his hard head. The second time the pretender came at him, he went low, so Dick flipped over him, using his hand to shove the kid back to the floor as he passed overhead. Landing lightly on the balls of his feet, he’d spun around to keep his opponent in his line of sight.

 _He's quick_ , Dick thought as the teen came charging at him again, _but not quick enough_. Moving to the side, Dick sent the boy tumbling. He shook his head in disgust. The kid had no strategy; his temper sent him rushing into unknown without thought as to his opponent’s strength or weaknesses. He was foolish and impulsive, and that combination would get him killed.

When his substitute came at him next, Dick added insult to injury by kicking the boy in the rump as he flew past. Furious, the boy came at him with a growl, spittle flying from his mouth. Dick spun the kid about, catching him in a headlock. He kept him in place with a full-nelson hold. The only hardship Dick suffered was his ears as the little jerk cursed the air blue.

"Hold still, you brat," Dick snapped at him. "You're not going to get free."

Kicking back, the kid slammed a heel against Dick's shin, but the new armor-plated utility compartments held up under the onslaught. Adjusting his stance, he continued to hold the squirming dervish still while denying him a target. Dick's extra height and weight made keeping the teen contained relatively easy. If he could handle the teenager with so little effort on his part, then the wannabe was still several long months away from being able to hold his own on an average patrol.

" _Nnaargh_!" The boy's curses dissolved into a mindless roar.

"Get a grip, will you? You're only going to hurt yourself if you keep this up!" Dick told him, but the boy was really too far gone to hear him.

" _Jason_! Calm down," Batman's signature growl cut through the cave.

While it took a few seconds to get through to him, eventually the boy's struggles lessened before ceasing altogether. Jason finally went completely still in Dick's hold, his breath heaving in and out with the effort spent.

"You can let go of him now," Bruce told him.

Dick looked at the kid in his arms skeptically. "You sure about that?"

"Let him go."

Dick eased his grip, allowing Jason to rip himself free. The boy stomped several feet away before he felt safe enough to turn around to face him again. Dick kept loose but remained in his defensive stance until he was certain the kid wouldn't be back.

Flinging an arm in the direction of the boy, Dick snapped at Batman. "Miss me much?"

"This doesn't concern you," came the short answer.

Dick blinked in disbelief. "Doesn't concern me? You told me you made a mistake taking on a partner. You said you worked better alone. I haven't been gone a full seven months and already you found some kid to dress in my old suit and gave him _my_ old name!"

Jason stared at him. " _You_ were the first Robin? I thought you were dead."

" _Dead_?" Dick choked. He glared at Bruce. "You told him I was _dead_?"

Batman's jaw seemed to harden. "I didn't tell him about you at all. He inferred that on his own."

Dick was shocked at how much that hurt - like sliding a knife between his ribs. It _still_ hurt. Dick had lived with Bruce from eight to eighteen, been his partner for just over nine years. In that time, Dick quickly began to see Bruce as more than a guardian, a mentor, and a partner. At nearly nineteen, this meant Bruce had been a father to him for longer than John Grayson had. He had been there for Dick for many important milestones, puberty, learning to shave, how to drive, advice about girls . . . Bruce and Alfred were the only family Dick had. Without them, he was alone in the world.

"So, what happened to you?" Jason blurted. "The rumor going around is that Joker killed you. So, if that isn't true, then I’m guessing you just couldn’t cut it anymore.” He shrugged. “Gotham's not for the weak."

Dick sent the kid a scathing look but didn’t bother dignifying that comment with an answer. Instead, he stepped up to Batman. He'd wanted to appeal to the man beneath the cowl, but Dick’s temper only succeeded in widening the ever-growing rift between them.

"He shouldn't be wearing that uniform," Dick declared angrily. “ _My_ uniform,” he clarified. "He's not ready for it as you saw for yourself just now. The kid couldn't even hold his own with me. If you take him out there now, you'd be burying him in the morning."

"Hey!" Jason protested.

Batman glared at Dick but snapped at Jason. "Quiet," he growled at the teen, shutting him up.

Dick had seen the batglare thousands of times but never had he been on the receiving end of it. Knowing the man as he did, the glare didn't intimidate Dick so much as it surprised him that Bruce would choose to level it at him.

Batman's gaze roamed over the new uniform.

"Who are you supposed to be?" he rumbled. It wasn’t a sound of approval.

Glancing down at himself with a critical eye, Dick tried to see it as Bruce did.

He’d been so proud of it, had ridden here nervous but excited to see Batman’s reaction. He thought it had looked good; it certainly felt better. Not only could he move easier than he ever did while wearing the bright yellow cape, the look was more intimidating, less like a “sidekick.”

 _Okay. So not the reaction I was hoping for_ . . . Dick wanted to demand Bruce tell him what was wrong with it but instead ground his teeth together to prevent the self-conscious words escaping.

"Nightwing."

"Nightwing," Bruce repeated. "Do I need to ask where that name came from?"

So, Bruce had been talking to Clark. Unsure how much Clark had blabbed about the name’s origin, Dick returned to the subject that mattered.

"Where did you find _him_?” Dick waved a hand in Jason’s direction. “And, for God's sake, why are you stuffing him into a Robin costume before he's ready? He's so far from being capable of holding his own that, if you try it, you'll be so distracted protecting his ass that you'll both end up dead!"

"That's not true," Jason yelled, unable to keep his silence while his abilities were being ridiculed.

Dick snarled at him. "Really? Because what I just witnessed says otherwise. Look, kid – Jason – whoever you are, Robin's job out there is to protect Batman, to watch his back. I wasn’t even trying just now. You are a danger not only to yourself, but to _him_ as well."

Batman interrupted, turning away as he walked toward the computer. "I don't know why you came back. This doesn't concern you."

"Doesn't . . .? I came back because I didn't like the way we left things. I thought . . ." he hesitated. "I thought . . ." he trailed off, not wanting to expose his vulnerability any more than he already had.

Batman paused, turning his head slightly as he waited for Dick to finish his sentence. "You thought . . . what?"

Everything he had planned to say on the ride over here was gone. Whatever he had hoped would happen when he got here had been nothing more than a dream conjured out of his loneliness. Inside, Dick was hemorrhaging from a wound so deep he didn't think it would ever heal. So, he did what any wild animal would do when someone poked a particularly painful injury . . .

He’d lashed out.

* * *

His appetite ruined by memories; Dick set the carton of Chinese food aside.

He couldn't remember everything he had said that night. All he had wanted at that moment was for Bruce to feel the same kind of pain that he felt, to understand the same sense of betrayal.

Whatever their argument months back, it had been nothing compared to the argument they had that night four weeks ago. Nose to nose, the two of them had snarled, growled, yelled, and threatened. Then, in a rage and unthinking, Dick had shoved him. Reacting, Bruce had struck out, backhanding Dick so hard the younger man had been thrown backward from the force of it. Stunned by the unexpected blow, it had taken Dick a minute to pick himself up off of the cave floor.

Never before had Bruce struck him – not on purpose, not once. Sure, they had sparred and, most of the time, it was Dick that took the brunt of it but that was sparring. Bruce had been pulling his punches during those matches. They had been aimed at preparing him for the dangers he would be facing on Gotham's streets. They had not been meant as a punishment. They had not been meant to harm him; not that Dick was down for the count by any means, but the blow's effect on him hadn't been merely physical.

Batman was always in control but not _that_ night. The fury radiating off the older man had been palpable. Glancing over, Dick as saw Jason staring at the two of them with real fear in his eyes. The boy had begun backing away towards the steps leading up to the manor. In a flash of insight, Dick realized that Jason was going to get Alfred. It was a smart move. It gave him hope that the boy wasn't completely unsuited to a life with Bruce.

‘GET OUT,’ Bruce had screamed at him - not growling, not even yelling. Bruce had been red-faced, veins-throbbing, spittle-flying screaming - at _Dick_.

 _What did I say to him_?

What had Dick done in those moments that had broken through Batman's famed control? His mind had blanked; his face had gone white in his shock.

Wiping the blood from his chin, Dick threw himself on his bike and fled. He raced to the safe house with reckless speed, back to where he had parked his car. He knew the bike would be safe enough until he could come back for it. Batman seldom used this particular safe house as it bordered one of the better areas of the city. Bruce wouldn't bother coming here.

Changing into his street clothes, Dick had driven away. With no direction in mind, he hadn't cared where he wound up. Dick drove until he entered Bludhaven's city limits. Bludhaven - Gotham City's ugly, little sister. It would have been difficult to imagine a place even more corrupted or crime-ridden than Gotham herself until one visited here.

Eventually, he found a twenty-four-hour parking garage, then located an out of the way location, far from other vehicles. Locking the doors, Dick had curled up in the backseat to sleep. He had lived there in his car for the better part of two-weeks, leaving only to get food or to use the public restroom down the street. He had slept (and cried) there because, let's face it, Dick had just lost everything in his life – his home, his family - all over again.

 _Except it feels worse this time_ , he thought. Fate hadn't torn his family from him through death this time. Dick couldn't take comfort in knowing the people he lost had been snatched away against their will, that they had died still loving him.

Bruce hadn't died . . . Alfred, as much as the older man might have cared for Dick, was loyal to his employer far more than he was to an upstart circus brat. Dick had just lost his father all over again and, by default, his grandfather figure too.

Bruce, for whatever reason, no longer loved him . . . _if he ever did_.

Dick might have remained there, feeling sorry for himself, had someone not tried to break into his car. That night, after he had sent the would-be car thief fleeing, Dick took to the rooftops of Bludhaven for the first time as Nightwing. Before dawn arrived, Bludhaven's new protector had foiled four muggings, two attempted B&Es, two rapes, and three armed robberies. As the sun rose over the skyline, Dick had wondered how much more he would have accomplished had he a better grasp of the city.

He couldn't go back to Gotham City, he knew that, but never was a place more in need of its own hero than Bludhaven. Even the cops were said to be on the take here. Dick had sat on the hood of his car on that cold March morning and made the conscious decision to stay. He would return to Gotham only for his bike and allow Batman to, unknowingly, donate some of his cache to Nightwing’s new cause.

It was time to retake control of his life.

And, with Alfred's gift, Dick had.

* * *

It wasn’t that Dick hadn’t been feeling better over the past couple of days; he did. Leasing his crappy apartment and finding a part-time job - Things were started to look up. Wasn’t hard to do after sleeping in your car during the tail end of winter, after all. At least, things were until today.

His birthday . . . Nothing was going to help him feel better today.

Sighing, he took what remained of his leftovers and shoved it back inside the near-empty fridge, taking stock of what was left. Half a quart of expired milk, less than that of orange juice, an egg, week-old pizza . . . and the little cardboard carton of Lo Mein with a half-eaten eggroll.

 _No cake this year_.

"Happy Birthday to me," Dick muttered dryly. _Nineteen and nobody cares_. "This is so not what I wanted this year," he muttered. But rather than sit here counting cobwebs beneath a single bare lightbulb that dangled from his stained, drop ceiling, Dick decided to go out.

 _What better way to celebrate the end of a crappy year_? _Who knows? This could be the beginning of something amazing_. “Only direction left to go is up,” he said aloud.

Pummeling lowlifes always made him feel better. He could use the workout and the criminals would gain his valuable council. Together, they would weigh the pros and cons of their chosen career and hopefully forge a new path. The mental image this produced amused him.

Carefully applying his new mask, Nightwing grabbed his escrima sticks, and exited through the window over the kitchen sink. Seconds later, Nightwing shot his grapple line, disappearing into the night.

* * *

Vince stuck his head inside the office. "Dr. Everhardt? Delivery," the museum's security guard called out.

Dr. Christian Everhardt was a thirty-something man with dark hair. With gloves on his hands, he was pouring over an ancient document, using a lighted magnifying glass to illuminate it when the guard interrupted him. Concentration broken; the professor rubbed his eyes as he waved at the guard.

"It's after hours," Everhardt reminded him, annoyed at the interruption.

"Sorry, Doc," Vince said. "Late arrival."

"What is it?" he asked distractedly. "I'm in the middle of something here."

"I realize that but, something important has come in from Gotham U. for you," Vince explained.

"Gotham U.?" Everhardt straightened up, stretching his back. "Is it related to this latest find? The druid box and the parchment scroll?"

"Ah, I don't know, Doc, but the delivery guy's still here. He might be able to tell you. Said he needed a signature and, well, seeing as how you're still here." Vince waved the man into the room. "I hope this isn't a problem."

It wasn’t protocol, but Everhardt looked towards the delivery person expectantly. The iron box and the scroll he received this morning were of great historical significance. Druids didn’t keep written records, so these examples were not just rare but, were quite likely the only pieces of their kind in existence. He was quite excited to think the excavation in Great Britain might have unearthed another treasure like this one.

"No, that's alright," he told the guard. He turned to the delivery person. "What do we have here? So, is connected to the dig in England, perhaps?”

* * *

Gary stepped into the room from the darkened hallway, holding out a packing container of some size. “Yes,” he said. “Professor Sheridan said to deliver this to you as soon as possible.” But his gaze looked past Everhardt towards the iron druid box.

The was what he was here for. Gary nearly died for that box and that scroll. He traveled thousands of miles to track it down. He had paid for them with blood, by God. He was due.

"You said something about a druid box?" he asked with careful curiosity. "Is that what this is?"

Everhardt set the new container on his desk and walked over to the table where the iron box was displayed. He ran a hand over the course black metal; his fingers tracing over the symbols lightly. "Yes, I've never seen anything quite like it. Unfortunately, the key wasn’t found with it but there is plenty to study before we worry about how to open it. Are you familiar with the ancient druids?"

Gary smiled tightly. "Oh yes," he said. "Uncomfortably so."

"Really? Would you care to have a look?" Everhardt offered magnanimously.

"Uh, Doc, I need to escort him back before I can finish my rounds," Vince reminded him.

Everhardt waved a hand at Vince. "That's fine. I can escort him out when we're done here."

"But . . ." Vince looked uneasy with that.

"No. It's okay, really," Everhardt told him. "I'll take full responsibility. This find is extraordinary, very unusual, and quite rare. I would love to have a second opinion."

Gary ducked his head modestly. "I'm still only a graduate student, professor, although I’ll graduating in May."

"Practically a colleague already," Everhardt said jovially, slapping Gary on the back. He turned the younger man in the direction of the box, dismissing the guard by his body language. "Take a look, I insist."

"Okay, Doc. You call star-89 when you two are done. I can meet you up front by the doors and let you out," Vince said, certain this was going to get him chewed out by his superior. But the two men were already deep into their study, so Vince closed the door behind him, leaving with the impression that neither person had heard a word he said.

* * *

Gary waited until he could no longer distinguish Vince's footsteps before stepping over to the door and locking it. He moved back over to the table that held the parchment. That druid chick, Rhiannon she had called herself, had warned of its importance before she had tried to decapitate him. He knew that the flecks of blood on her weapon had come from Skip.

A shudder passed through him at the memory. He had barely managed to escape with his life. He had no idea what became of Melanie, but he suspected she had shared Skip’s fate.

The druid woman had caught up to him at the airport. Had there not been other people present . . .

How she had found him so quickly, he didn't know. Truthfully, he was _afraid_ to know. Afraid enough that he had run from her while she had been distracted by the arrival of airport security. Staying out of sight, Gary found the university’s shipment being loaded on the plane. The commotion allowed him to pry open one of the crates where he had shoved the box and the parchment. He would catch up with it in Gotham.

He had escaped the woman that day, but not unscathed. She had marked on him. Gary touched the stitches carefully. The wound was still raw and tender. He had taken a direct flight to Gotham the second he left the ER, determined to catch up to that damned box and claim whatever it contained. His friends had died for it, and Gary had paid for it with his blood, sweat, and tears. In his opinion, that gave him a right to it.

He fucking _deserved_ whatever fortune it held.

"I need you to open the box now, Dr. Everhardt," Gary told him as he plucked the parchment from its place on the man's desk.

Everhardt frowned at him. "Be careful with that. We don't know how old the scroll is yet."

"It's more than two thousand years old," Gary said authoritatively.

The older man blinked. "You couldn't possibly know that in the time you've been here. Even the box's age is questionable because the leather straps are clearly from a different era . . ."

"I just KNOW," Gary roared, dragging a knife out from under his clothes. "You see, I'm the one who dug it up out from under the fucking druid altar, only to have some fucking crazy chick claiming to be a druid priestess try to fucking kill me for it!"

* * *

Seeing the knife, Everhardt suddenly realized the danger he was in. His exit was blocked, however, by the obviously unstable man in front of him.

"Forget it, Doc. It's locked." Gary tossed the linguist the scrap of parchment. "Translate that," he demanded. Grabbing the box, he slammed the lock with the hilt of his knife.

Everhardt caught scrap out of the air, protesting the violence of Gary's actions. "Stop! You're damaging a valuable piece of history."

The younger man snarled, waving the knife in professor's direction. "Unless you are reading what came from that scroll, shut the fuck up!"

Having no choice, Everhardt turned back to the magnifying glass. He flipped his notepad to a fresh sheet of paper and attempted to concentrate on the faded black symbols in front of him.

The linguist took in the next several symbols, interpreting them individually and then considered how they might relate to one another. He worked feverously, wincing every time Gary would slam something against the box's lock in an attempt to force the lid open.

"Damn it," Gary snarled angrily. "Where the hell is the key?"

Everhardt glanced over at him. "According to the parchment, there was never a key made," he told him.

"What? Where does it say that?" The younger man glared at him.

"I-I had just interpreted a line of text to mean just that. Once the box had been sealed and locked, it was never meant to be reopened."

Gary frowned, confused. "Why the hell would anyone do that?"

Everhardt shrugged. "The better part of the scroll reads like a bad horror movie. It talks of gods warring and druid warriors fighting an army of . . ." he sighed. "One symbol stood for birds, another for warriors, but then it had a raven. It could mean that the druids were battling an army of birds to the death or . . ."

"Or what?"

"The symbols following the raven don't make a lot of sense. 'Not-death' is the closest thing I can come up with." He shook his head. "But that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? ' _Dead_ / _not-dead_ '' . . . I mean, are they talking about zombies? There are no such things as zombies. But then, if that were the case, the question of the original bird symbol still remains unanswered."

"Zombie-birds?" Gary snorted derisively.

"Hey!" Everhardt snapped. "I didn't write this. I'm only interpreting it and, I'll have you know, I'm one of the best in the business."

"Fine. Just finish with what I gave you," he growled. He moved to the door, peering out of the glass panel into the darkened hall beyond.

"Some of these symbols I am unfamiliar with but this one means 'prison' and obviously refers to the iron box. This one here could be interpreted as 'open', although it is more often used for 'freedom'," Everhardt murmured under his breath.

It was quiet for the next several minutes as Everhardt worked. The only break in the silence was the occasional murmuring the linguist made when he came upon something curious or confusing. Gary was losing his patience when the professor set his pencil down. He swiveled on his stool, pad in hand.

"I don't believe this box is what you think it is," Everhardt muttered after a time. "This doesn't mention the box as holding a token or treasure. This claims the box is a prison for an ancient power."

"What kind of power?" Gary asked. _Power could be good. Would have preferred it to have been gold, but power works just as well for me_.

"It doesn't say but wouldn't 'prison' denote that this power was a bad thing?" Everhardt reasoned. "At any rate, as best I can tell, the rest of it says: 'Life's blood spilt upon the lock through means most . . .' and here is where it grows strange. The last word is 'bird'." Everhardt read to him.

" _Bird_? That makes no sense, Doc," Gary complained. "You better not be fucking with me."

"Look for yourself or did you lie when you said you were a graduate student?" Everhardt tossed the notepad at him.

"Don't mess with me," Gary warned, catching the pad with his free hand. He flung it back at the linguist, hitting the man in the chest. The pad fell to the floor, its pages fluttered violently.

Everhardt threw his hands up in frustration. "I suppose it could be some sort of riddle, but I need time to research it."

"You are out of time," Gary snapped.

A tap at the window made both men jump. Everhardt looked over to see his office light reflecting off a shape immediately outside. He walked over just as the shape tapped again at the pane.

"It's some sort of bird," Everhardt deduced, surprised. As he neared the window, the bird tapped a third time, rather hard, in fact. "I think it's a crow."

"It’s too big to be a crow," Gary remarked uneasily.

"Okay, so maybe it's a raven? It doesn't seem to be afraid of me at all. How odd it that?"

Gary stormed over, shoving Everhardt to the side, and banged on the window. The bird flapped it wings in response but didn't fly away as expected.

"What the hell? What are you doing?"

Gary waved a hand in the direction of the bird. "That is the raven from the site. It wasn't afraid of people either."

"Site? What are you talking about? Do you mean where you found the box?" Everhardt frowned. "You think that raven is linked somehow to the iron box," he blurted incredulously. "Are you suggesting that this bird here flew all the way to Bludhaven from Wales? Don’t be ridiculous. Birds in Britain don’t migrate south this time of year, and certainly not over the Atlantic."

"It could be magic." Gary scowled. "Magic would make sense of all of this."

Everhardt scoffed. "Magic is for the weak-minded. I'm sure our druid friends that built the box believed in magic, but this is the twenty-first century, man."

"Guess you never heard of Zatara or Dr. Fate," Gary snapped at him.

Everhardt's eyebrow rose at the mention of the Justice League members. "I'm quite certain that what they do is not _magic_. It’s likely some type of alien technology that simply appears magical to us."

Gary laughed harshly. "You believe in aliens but not magic?"

"It is hard to refute the Martian Manhunter or Superman," he admitted. "But, while our everyday technology would have seemed magical to the ancient druids, you are aware of the science behind it."

"I didn't believe in magic at first," Gary told him in all seriousness, "but I was _there_. I _saw_ the druid priestess step out of nothing. She was able to travel distances at will, and then, there was the raven." Slapping his hand against the window a second time, Gary flipped the lock when the raven refused to move.

"What are you doing?" Everhardt asked. He glanced back at the door, wondering if he could get through it before Gary could reach him. The man was obviously demented.

"I'm going to kill it," Gary growled. Shoving the window open, he tried reaching for the bird. Flapping wildly, the raven kept clear of the man's hand but, didn’t fly away as one might expect. Instead, the bird dodged past Gary, entering the small room on its own.

The office was too claustrophobic for such a large bird to easily maneuver. It made one circuit around the perimeter of the room before settling on top of the iron box itself.

" _You see_?!" Gary pointed. "How can you possibly explain _that_?"

Everhardt frowned at the bird's odd behavior. "I just had a thought," he said as he stepped carefully to one side. "What if the word 'bird' actually meant 'fowl'?

"Fowl? I'm not following you," Gary stared at him.

"'Life's blood spilt upon the lock through means most fowl.'," Everhardt quoted.

"Fowl . . . as in bird rather than foul as in heinous?"

"Think about it? Maybe the instructions meant the life blood of a bird," Everhardt crowed.

"How would the locking mechanism know the difference if this isn't magic?" Gary argued He moved closer to the table, carefully so as not to alarm the bird. "That certainly sounds like a spell to me."

"Of course, it would sound like a spell. These people were primitive. They would most certainly believe in the magic they attempted to invoke in their rituals," Everhardt argued.

It was strange that the raven appeared unbothered by the two men. It cocked its head at Gary but didn’t protest or fly away at his approach. When he was close enough, Gary snatched the raven from its perch by its neck, holding it out to avoid the creature’s talons. Although, the bird flapped its wings briefly, it didn't object to the action - not even when the young man used his knife to kill it.

"Grab the box," he ordered, holding the raven up.

Fascinated, Everhardt did as directed, tilting the iron box so that the still warm blood from the feathered corpse fell onto the lock. As they watched, the thick liquid quickly overflowed the tiny opening before running down the side of the box. The blood pooled on the table and was allowed to dribble freely onto the floor. The professor stumbled back to avoid being splattered.

"It's not doing anything," Everhardt complained. "But, of course, it couldn't possibly have work." Then, before he finished speaking, there was a loud click and the sound of hidden gears working. "My God," he exclaimed in surprise. "I can't believe that actually worked."

Gary’s laughter sounded faintly hysterical. “At last. Finally!”

“No. No, this isn’t possible,” the professor protested. “Two thousand years ago, mechanics such as this were only found in Egypt, certainly not in Celtic pre-history. This box cannot possibly be as old as you believe. It must be a hoax.”

Hoax or not, when the lid was lifted, Everhardt couldn’t help but lean in to see for himself what it contained.

Gary tossed the dead bird on the floor, eager to claim his prize. It was his. The token, be it one of luck or power or wealth, would fix everything wrong with his life. If he were fortunate, the payoff would be great enough to make up for the nightmare he’d had endured to get to it.

Reaching into the box with both hands, heedless of the blood still coating them, Gary pulled out his reward. The two men gazed quizzically at the item. It was not something golden nor jewel encrusted as they had expected. It was nothing more than a large rock, round, the size and weight of a large bowling ball.

"What the hell is this?" Gary asked, his temper rising.

Everhardt stared. “It’s a geode. You did all of this for a rock?

"How is this going to make me rich?"

“It’s the box that is your treasure. It is surely worth more than its contents, if nothing else for its historical significance, if you haven’t ruined its markings in your efforts to open it.”

Gary looked back at the box, contemplating how much it might bring when they were interrupted by multiple gunshots ringing out in the hall beyond. The two men glanced at one another in surprise. Someone screamed.

“It can’t be . . .” Gary gasped, fear in his eyes. “It’s her, that woman.” _How could_ s _he had followed me here_?

He started backing away but it was a fairly small office. There was no place else for him to go. When his foot slipped in the blood on the floor, Gary fell back. The rock flew from his grip as he attempted to catch himself against the table.

When the geode hit the tiled floor, it gave off a deafening crack and a shock wave burst outward. The two men were thrown to the floor as shattered glass, books and papers rained down around them.

Everhardt, recognizing his chance to escape, scrambled to his feet and ran.

" _NO_!” Gary yelled after him. “Don't open that door!"

* * *

She kicked the door to the room open, nearly colliding with man inside. The woman, dressed for battle in her robes and chainmail strode purposely into the room, her sword drawn. Not the person she was looking for, she shoved the professor to the side, but he continued to block her way, even going so far as to grab her free arm.

"Get out! He’s mad,” he told her. “We must run.”

Rhiannon ignored his warnings. She did not run from her battles, but when he wouldn’t release her, she allowed her sword to convince him. He gasped as the blade cut deep, and she shoved his body out of her way. Intent on her mission, she was stepping over the man's body when she spotted the open box.

"You fools!" she cried. "What have you done?" If she could reseal the box, mayhap she could return it to its burial site . . .

Dying, Everhardt grabbed the hem of her robe, but the priestess pulled free of his grasp. There was no time to dally with the dead. Rhiannon hesitated, however, upon the realization that the iron box was empty.

“No,” she gasped. "Mayhap there is still time . . .”

Locating the rock on the floor, she sheathed her sword and dashed forward. She was reaching for the stone when she noticed the crack and jerked back at the last second.

"It is done, then," she whispered. She had failed.

Rhiannon discovered the one who had started it all cowering a few feet away. Her lip curled in disgust. "Your greed has killed us all."

* * *

Gary had watched the priestess casually enter the room and murder the professor without a care. He cringed as she came towards him, but her focus was for the rock alone. He frowned, curiosity overwhelming his fear for a moment. Why was that rock so important to her?

When she reared back suddenly, he glanced down at the geode still lying just beyond his feet. What could possibly be capable of making that ruthless woman recoil in horror?

“Your greed has killed us all,” she spat at him.

“Me? What did I . . .?” He broke off abruptly when he saw it.

Something thick and black oozed out of the stone from a small crack in its rough surface. As it puddled on the drab green tile, it moved of its own accord, snaking a path toward the pool of blood left from the dead bird. Mixing with the cooling red liquid, it flowed toward the raven’s corpse as if alive - As if it had purpose. They watched in horror as it seeped beneath the black body of the fallen bird.

A second later, the corpse twitched.

"What the hell?" Gary scrambled back in alarm.

Even the druid priestess was backing away. "I have to leave," she was murmuring to herself. "I must find help, but who remains that could stop _her_ now?"

Her back to him, the priestess began drawing symbols in the air with her hand. The glowing blue characters hovered briefly before a doorway appeared in the middle of the office. Another world appeared on the other side: green fields, blue skies, and a mighty oak tree on a hill in the distance. Gary looked through a broken window at the dark cityscape beyond.

 _Magic_ , his brain whispered to him.

Without a backward glance, the priestess stepped through the glowing portal.

Wait!" he called out too late. "What the fuck is happening?" But doorway collapsed behind her, disappearing as if it had never existed. _Of all the people she had blindly murdered, why did she leave me alive_?

Across from him, Gary found Everhardt. The professor moaned as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position. He swayed, blinking at the blood that streamed unimpeded from the gash in his stomach. Slumping back onto his side, Everhardt pressed his hands against the wound, but it was too late for him. The professor had lost too much blood. The man was dead already; he just didn’t know it yet.

Gary decided he needed to get out of here while he could, but the raven was between him and the exit. The bird was twitching madly now, flopping about as its wings beating the air. It struggled to its feet.

Terror unlike anything he had ever before experienced filled him. Trembling uncontrollably, Gary pushed himself into a small space between the bookshelves and the desk, hoping in vain to hide from whatever was happening in the room.

"Come back," he yelled into the ether. "Oh God, don't leave me here!" But the woman was long gone.

Everhardt stared at the reanimated body of the dead bird. His hands fell away from his wound as a greater fear presented itself.

" W-What . . . _is_ that thing?" the professor choked out in horror. "D-Dear God in heaven . . ."

The raven was flapping and moving in ways that their minds couldn’t comprehend. The bird was growing in front of them, its body stretching impossibly. Its feet and legs grew thick as its feathers flowed around it, molding to its new body. They listened to the grotesque sounds of bones snapping and joints crackling filling the room. The bird's beak shrank, shortening, the point lost while feathers gave way to skin and a face took shape.

A woman formed in front of them, her complexion gray with blue veins visible beneath wrinkled, translucent skin. Rather than hair, her scalp retained its glistening, iridescent feathers. Those on the body, however, had refashioned themselves into a robe of unrelenting black. Dark bands of an unknown metal decorated her arms. A heavy metal torc* of deep red lay across her chest, resembling not a decoration more than it did a gash, as if a blade had flayed open her skin exposing the flesh beneath. The nails on the ends of her fingers and toes were thick, blackened talons, razor-sharp.

She opened strange round eyes that were golden-yellow. They looked wild, inhuman – reminding Gary of a raptor. There was no pity, no mercy in her for those mortals cowering near her feet. And while she didn’t even glance at the two men in the room with her, Gary had no doubt she was aware of their presence. They were simply so far beneath her that she didn’t care.

Without warning, a single pulse of energy exploded from her body in all directions before returning to her a mere second later. The feathers on her head ruffled in response as if a breeze had swept through the room. Her skin plumped as the wrinkles smoothed out. Though her visage appeared now one of youth and beauty, her skin retained its pale, gray, corpse-like color.

If the men marveled at _her_ transformation, no one would know. What had been Christian Everhardt and Gary Middleton were now but shriveled gray husks with empty eye sockets. Their bodies appeared frozen in time.

Without a word, _she_ walked out of the room. As _she_ passed, the hem of her robe brushed by the unlucky linguist and his body crumpled, disintegrating into a mound of fine gray dust scattered on the office floor.

 _The End_ had only just begun . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REACTIONS? THOUGHTS?
> 
> Btw, A *torc, is a necklace or a flat band of metal that lay around the neck or across the chest as form of decoration or as to denote one's rank or title.


	3. Phenomenon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a terrifying phenomenon swept through Bludhaven, Nightwing investigates an alarm at the museum and discovers an unexplainable number of deaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Language, Frightening and/or Disturbing Imagery . . .

Phoebe and Gavin stood to collect their coats as the credits ran in the movie theater. They never bothered to sit through the credits, although most movies tended to have some little bonus scene tucked at the end nowadays. The lights were raised halfway, providing just enough light for people to exit the theater easily.

It was date night. They always looked forward to having a little dedicated time to be together, just the two of them. Since the baby came along, finding time to do more than kiss the other goodbye or good night had become a chore. Marriage became a little harder when children entered the scene, especially when the number grew to two, but the rewards made it worth the effort. Their six-year-old son, Thaddeus, would be starting first grade next fall and would bring with it all sorts of new challenges. His little brother, Hudson, was only finally settling down from months of colic. Phoebe was able to get six hours of uninterrupted sleep at night now.

When Gavin’s keys fell out of the pocket of his jacket, he handed her the garment so he could retrieve them.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “Hang on.”

Phoebe already had her coat on and was adjusting her bag on her shoulder, so she didn’t notice anything at first. When she realized that Gavin wasn’t moving, she frowned.

“Honey, let’s go. The sitter’s waiting,” she encouraged him. “What’s the problem?”

When Gavin still failed to move, didn’t even acknowledge her, Phoebe laid her hand on his back to get his attention.

“Gavin . . .?”

Phoebe’s breathe caught in her throat as her hand passed through his body and then he was _crumbling_ – literally falling apart right before her eyes. His body had turned to a super-fine, ash-like material. She screamed . . . and screamed again. The screams wouldn’t stop although her world seemed to do just that.

People in the aisle behind and in front of her stood up to see what had happened only to discover that those people who had been sitting next to them had suffered the same fate. Gasps, yells, and yet more screams filled the theater. Lights were slow in turning up but, when they did, it was to a scene from a horror movie.

Half of the theater had been changed to shriveled statues only resembling their previous appearances in the vaguest way . . . until, that is, someone touched them, and then the bodies of their friends and loved ones collapsed, disintegrating into piles of gray dust. Nothing left at all except the clothes that they were wearing. Half of the theater - like a straight line down the middle.

Perhaps if Phoebe hadn’t been caught up in her own trauma, she might have heard the muted sounds of other people screaming through the walls, out in the streets. While some sat or stood weeping over their loss, others were running in a panic, climbing over seats and, in some cases, over people in their bid to escape what had become a tomb.

As the last of Gavin slipped away, Phoebe saw a glint of metal and found the keys to their car lying on the floor a few inches from Gavin’s shoes. They were half-buried in gray dust. She reached down to pluck them off of the floor.

 _Her babies_! _Dear God, were the children alright_? _Had they_ . . .? The sudden need to hold them both in her arms overwhelmed her and, dropping Gavin’s coat into the dusty, sticky theater floor, she ran, too. Desperation and fear made her as rude and inconsiderate as any of the other patrons.

* * *

The alarm at Bludhaven’s Museum of Natural History was going off Nightwing noted, adjusting his direction. He was close, he knew, having been by there a few nights ago. Nightwing tapped his communicator in his ear. He was on the police frequency. They were sending a patrol car, but they were ten minutes out.

Ten minutes? Dick knew he could get clear across town in twenty if he hustled. What could possibly take them so long to respond? Whoever was breaking in could be in and out before the police could be bothered to show up.

Nightwing landed on the roof of the office building across from the museum and paused. It was incredibly quiet - unusually so. He could see that the glass entrance had been shattered from here. No wonder the alarm had gone off. The thieves obviously weren’t worried about being interrupted, so it makes sense that they were there for just one particular item. Swinging down to street level, he peered cautiously into the interior.

Deathly quiet . . .

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something was off . . .

Stepping through the hole left behind, Nightwing stopped abruptly. Glancing down, he realized the glass wasn’t on the inside of building but all over the sidewalk _outside_. The break-in was, in fact, a _break-out_!

He straightened, certain whoever had set off the alarm was no longer here. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the eerie feeling that continued walking up and down his spine. Pulling out his penlight, Nightwing moved into the museum following the path of destruction.

He discovered a bullet hole in the wall next to a display. It contained a valuable collection of jewelry donated by Astacia Hope, heiress to the Boston Hope fortune. The case was shattered like the front entry, but the jewelry remained. So, a fight had taken place here at some point, meaning the heist had taken more than a few minutes. Did the firefight make them panic and run, leaving the take behind?

As he looked around, he noted that _every_ display case was broken. The mystery continued as he moved further into the museum. Questions began filling his mind.

Why would the thieves leave behind millions of dollars in jewels to continue further into the museum? The answer was that they hadn’t. Nightwing doubted the thieves entered the same way they’d exited, but if they left through the front door, then where the hell had they entered? More glass . . . It was everywhere. He looked up and saw the skylight was also broken.

Nightwing wondered what Batman would make of this and immediately regretted that line of thought. As he was banned from the Batcave and the manor, the likelihood that he would be able to talk about a case with Bruce was in the negative.

He shook off his depression. It had no place in an investigation.

A figure caught his eye. A security guard sat on the floor up ahead, leaning against the wall. Nightwing moved quickly, kneeling by his side. He caught his breath in shock at the man’s condition. It was obvious the guard was already dead from the gray color of his skin, but the body appeared shriveled as if someone had sucked all of the water - or all the life - out of him. Reaching out a hand to check the guard’s name badge, Nightwing stared in horror as the shirt fell inward. The collapse didn’t stop, however, and Nightwing leapt to his feet as the man’s head and body crumbled into nothing. The uniform remained, but the fine dust that made up the body puffed up slightly before settling.

It reminded him of volcanic ash but there were no indications that there had been a fire, nor could he see any evidence of excess heat damaging the uniform or the surrounding area. No bone fragments or hair remained, making him wonder what sort of weapon could have caused the complete destruction of a human being but leave their clothing untouched.

Unease prickled along his spine and scalp. This was like nothing he had ever seen before. In fact, Nightwing was fairly certain this was like nothing Bruce had ever ran into before either. Dick had spent many a day and night reading past files of Batman’s cases from before the advent of Robin. He remembered nothing resembling this type of MO.

He paused, tugging out his spycam from a compartment in his boot to take a picture of the guard and collected a bit of the ash for analysis later on.

As Nightwing continued, it was on alert in case he had misjudged and the murderer was still here somewhere inside the museum. He walked through several rooms and in every single one, anything that had been made of glass was broken, including mirrors, light fixtures, more skylights, hell in some cases, even pottery. He noticed cracks in some of the more delicate statues.

Yet, throughout all of it, he couldn’t detect anything to be missing.

It was like the kind of damage one might find after a shockwave, as if a large bomb had detonated nearby. But to manage this amount of damage, it would have had to have been big enough that Dick would have seen or at least heard it. Bomb or not, someone had been here. Guns had been fired and a guard was dead by inexplicable means.

He was about to exit through the skylight to search the surrounding area when he saw the doors leading into the back of the museum had been blown off their hinges. The hallway would lead to offices and storage areas. Could that have been where the bomb had gone off? He knew many museums had safes to house their priceless display pieces. Was this what the thieves had been after?

 _No, not thieves_. _Even if their motive had been theft, these men were now murderers_.

Moving cautiously into the darkened hall, he moved his light around searching for clues left behind in a careless moment. Hell, there could be clues all over the place, but the damage was so great, they could be easily missed in the dark. He swept the hall with his light slowly.

There - a few dozen paces further in he spotted a flash of white. A shirt like the one the previous guard wore. _Damn . . . Another victim_. Squatting beside the second guard where he lay on the floor, Nightwing saw that he too was gray and shriveled. This time, however, Nightwing knew to avoid touching the body.

Playing the light over the guard, Dick found blood both on the shirt and pooled on the floor, but it looked old, dark in color, and dried as if the man had died months ago and not within the last hour. The head lay at a peculiar angle and the slice in his uniform said he had been dead before whatever phenomena had left him a shriveled husk.

So, was he was looking for two murderers or one who absorbed something from the body after he killed the person?

This was a mystery worthy of The Batman, and Nightwing’s hand twitched with the need to change the channel of his communicator to the frequency Batman used. He had never seen anything like this and to say that it was kind of freaking him out a bit would have been an understatement. This was above his paygrade.

He hesitated as he considered maybe calling in the Justice League but that would get back to Bruce and prove to him that Dick couldn’t cut it on his own. The Teen Titans would have his back _and_ keep it within the team but searching for clues and running investigations was Dick’s expertise. His friends wouldn’t be much help until he figured out what was going on anyway.

Nightwing made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. His first actual mystery in his new identity and he was ready to beg for help. No, Nightwing would continue his search and draw his conclusions first, then he could decide whether or not he needed to call in the cavalry. He was sure he could solve this. Dick only needed to concentrate, do the legwork - the answers would come.

Taking more samples, this time of blood, and more pictures, Nightwing knew he could call in a favor at Star Labs. One of their techs wouldn’t mind running some more detailed tests on the dust and blood for him, things he didn’t have the equipment to do himself. He had pulled the identities of the guards from their uniforms. It wouldn’t take much to hack the museum files to find more about them.

What he needed was some clue as to what kind of weaponry the bad guy used to do this to them and for what purpose. He would check Bludhaven’s Finest to see if they had something that might connect this weird-ass crime to a person or to some other related incident.

A light was flickering from an office near the end of the corridor. At the door, Nightwing peered inside. He could tell by the feel of the place that there was no one left alive here either. Entering the room, he found another pile of dust in a lab coat. The museum ID identified him as Dr. Christian Everhardt. Nightwing took another sample of it and noted the blood around the body. He scraped a bit of the blood from the floor into a vial meant for that purpose, tucking it away for later.

Further examination revealed that the professor would have died from the wound in his abdomen. A size of the tear in the shirts of both men was too large for a common knife. If he didn’t know better, Nightwing would guess the murderer had used a sword. Well, they were in a museum. It wouldn’t be hard to locate a broadsword or two.

Sitting back on his heels, Nightwing considered what was left of the corpse. There was a lot of blood, easily enough to have caused his death, but had he been dead at the time he had been turned into ash? For what purpose had this been done to him? The man would have died from his wounds. This seemed like overkill to Dick.

Standing up, he studied the room. There was some glass in here, not a lot, but what there was he found around the perimeter of the room. Glass from the door had been blown out into the hall. The glass from the windows as well couldn’t be found in the room.

Dick’s eyebrows rose with his conclusion. Here was the epicenter for the blast that demolished the museum. The room itself hadn’t been destroyed as one might expect. Books and papers were all over the place, but the walls and shelves remained intact. It didn’t make sense because the walls should either have contained the damage or should have been blown out like the windows, but he knew in his gut that he was right.

“Somehow, someway . . . Whatever happened, it began here,” he spoke into the void, and a shiver rose up his spine. It felt like someone had walked over his grave. The uneasiness of earlier was downright creepy now.

His eyes settled on the only item that remained in the center of the room. A box made of a dark metal. He moved closer and noticed a large geode on the floor next to the table with the box. The rock had a crack in one side of it with the remains of an unknown black material on the surface.

 _Tar_? It looked as if the black material had come from inside the rock, but tar is created from organic materials. There’s no way it would be found inside of a geode. Dick picked up the stone and set it on the table next to the box.

“So, if it’s not tar, what is it?” He pulled out another small vial and scraped a bit of the viscous substance inside.

Taking his light, Nightwing shone it over the floor again. He noted more dried blood in a smaller quantity here, along with a bird’s feather and prints that must have belonged to the owner of feather. He glanced around but couldn’t find the body of the bird anywhere. What he did find, though, was half an imprint of a foot. It was small, dainty, obviously bare – _A woman_?

Dick took more samples and pictures of everything. He would need to bring everything with him, including the box and the geode. Maybe Star Labs could tell him something more. He wished he still had access to the Batcave . . . Picking up the geode, being careful to not touch the black substance, he placed it into the box. Although there was no hard evidence that said the rock had come out of the box, he was positive that it had. It fit perfectly, almost as if the box had been made to hold the stone.

Rubbing a gloved finger along the carved surface of the box, he noted the symbols covering every square inch, but didn’t recognize it as any language he was familiar with. That was saying something as he was fluent in six and familiar with several more. Life in a traveling circus did have its perks.

The lid also had flecks of dried blood on it, and although he looked, he didn’t find a key anywhere. He did find a piece of parchment on the desk near what used to be a magnifying glass. Someone had been studying it just moments ago. The symbols scratched on the scroll matched many of those on the box, meaning the two items had come here together.

He was tampering with a scene of multiple murders, but he had no reputation in Bludhaven that would give him the right to take anything, unlike in Gotham City, but if this was above his paygrade, it was definitely beyond that of local police. He justified what he was doing because he planned to solve this. Once he did, he might be invited to consult on other cases much as Batman was by the GPD.

It was a nice dream, anyway. He had a long way to go before that happened, but every journey began with the first step . . . Besides, he had a plan.

There was a Star Labs in Gotham City and another in Metropolis. Dick contemplated if he took this stuff to Gotham if Batman would find out. Metropolis was several hours further out of his way, however. He would just have to risk going to Gotham. Surely, with access to better equipment, someone there would be able to help him make sense of this.

His foot kicked the edge of a notebook on the floor filled with longhand scrawling over several pages. Bending down to pick it up was when he noticed him . . . _Another body_.

This one was pressed against the wall, wedged between the cabinet and the desk. He was hiding and clearly had been terrified when he had died. He didn’t want to disturb the body in an effort to locate his ID. Having experienced one body disintegrating once already had been enough to last him a lifetime. Nightwing found a knife under the table. It might have belonged to the second fellow. Stood to reason it would have someone’s prints on it.

“Were you trying to protect yourself, buddy? If so, from what?”

He turned back to the notebook and . . . Bingo! There were symbols here and there matching the box and parchment but this time with a written explanation beside it. He slid it inside the box along with the scroll. Maybe this would shed some light onto what had happened here. Satisfied, Nightwing picked up the box. He’d take it back to his apartment and drive it over to Star Labs tomorrow.

Plan in mind, Nightwing exited the building from the skylight in an effort to avoid running into the police. Word of Bludhaven’s newest vigilante hero had been cropping up over the last couple of weeks, but he didn’t want to explain what he was doing carrying out an artifact, suspicious though it be.

Standing on the roof, he noted the alarm was still going. It had been muffled somewhat in the back office, and truth to tell, he’d kind of gotten used to it. Moving to the front of the building, Nightwing frowned as he looked up and down the street.

 _Where are the cops_?

Checking his chronometer, he saw he had been inside the museum for fifteen minutes. Even Bludhaven’s cops should have been here by now.

“No one is that inefficient, even if they are dirty,” he said to himself.

Curious as to what could have taken precedence over a break-in at the museum, Nightwing turned on his communicator to listen in to the chatter over the police band . . . and discovered chaos.

Too many voices, too much activity, but Nightwing was able to pick up something about a disturbance. Recalling the map of the city he’d been pouring over since he moved here, Dick realized that whatever was going on was happening just a few blocks from where his position. Only a little out of his way, he decided he’d check it out on his way home. Sounded like the cops could use a hand.

* * *

Harry Calvert called for backup.

 _What the hell was going on_? People were screaming, running in every direction.

They had been on their way to provide backup for a museum heist in progress when they ran into this panic. Unable to drive through the throng, even with his lights and siren, Harry had been forced to stop. He had believed when he and his partner, Jimmy Li, pulled into the square that they had happened onto a riot or maybe a terrorist threat . . . A bomb – something. But as he attempted to locate the determining cause of panic, he could find nothing. No gunshots, no men in masks, no smoke or fire . . . Climbing out of the squad car, hands over their weapons, they searched the crowds.

A woman running by, fell on the pavement. People didn’t slow down, no one even looked at her as they fled from some unknown danger. His partner shoved his way through to help her before she was trampled. Harry made his way over to them hoping the woman could shed light on the nature of the emergency.

“Ma’am. Ma’am, can you speak to me? Are you hurt?” Li led her over to the car, leaning her against the hood, he positioned himself to protect her from the stampede. He snapped his finger in front of her face to gain her attention. “I think she’s in shock. Better call an ambulance. Better call several. There are bound to be more injured.”

Harry noticed she was covered in fine gray dust. “Ma’am, can you tell us what’s happening here? Where is the danger?”

The woman held a hand to her bleeding forehead. “No! No, you have to let me go,” she begged them, fighting Li’s grip on her arms. “I have to get home. I have to see my babies!”

“Ma’am, please, you’re hurt. Let us help you,” Li attempted again.

“My babies, please,” she cried. Her tears left clean streaks in the dust on her face.

“It’s okay. We’ll see that you get home,” Li promised.

Harry continued to scan the area for the threat but couldn’t see over the crowds. “This is useless. Ma’am, we can’t help you if you don’t talk to us.”

“M-My husband - Gavin!” Grief warred with the terror in her eyes. “He . . . He’s gone!”

Harry frowned. “You mean you lost him in the panic?”

She shook her head sharply. “No. No, he was there and then . . . he was just . . .” She couldn’t verbalize the incident.

The men exchanged confused glances, the Harry grabbed another passerby, a young black man in gang colors. The twenty-something should have been up to no good in this neighborhood, but instead of fighting Harry off, he grabbed the cop by the shoulders. His eyes, too, were wide with the same terror that was gripping everyone else.

“You! Tell me what going on here,” Harry barked at him.

“The people,” he gasped, panting as if he had just run a marathon. “They were just there one minute, then they turned all gray the next. I mean . . . You’re looking right at them, suddenly they stop talking and begin shriveling up. Even their eyes, man! Even their eyes!” He pointed his fingers at his eyes for emphasis. “But when you touch them . . . “

He broke off as he seemed to just notice that his hands were covered in the same gray dust as the woman. “Gah! I got that shit on me. Get it off,” he screeched, slapping at his skin to rid himself of the ash-like substance. His panic rose again, and the street tough tore away from them, screaming as he went to ‘get it off’.

The woman finished his sentence. “Y-Your hand just goes right through them and then they just . . . He just . . .” Her chin wobbled. “Fell apart. Crumbled into dust and slipped through your fingers.”

“That’s crazy,” Harry said. “Stuff like that doesn’t happen.”

“Where did this happen?” Li asked her, once again snapping to keep her attention.

She pointed behind her. “The theater. Half the theater . . . gone. Please, I have to see my babies! I have to know if they’re alright.”

“Calm down. Where’s your phone. Have you tried calling?” Jimmy tried to reason with her.

The woman glanced down, but all she had with her was a set of car keys. She had lost her purse somewhere. “I-I don’t know.” she stammered.

“She's in shock. Hell, everyone here is in shock.” Harry told him. “We’ll head toward the theater. If it began there maybe whoever caused this is still there.”

The crowd was thinning, and he could see people were kneeling on the pavement nearby weeping over piles of . . . _Dear God, were those clothes_?

Li let the weeping woman go and she stumbled up the street, hopefully in the direction of home. “Harry, we’re going to need help with this.”

Harry was already moving. He pulled his weapon as he used his radio to call dispatch.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said into the microphone attached at his shoulder. “I know I already called for backup, but you need to send more. We got a situation here at The Palace Theater on the corner of Hemming and Halyard. I don’t know what the hell is going on, just get here!”

* * *

Nightwing slowed down when he caught sight of a car crash up ahead. One of the cars was a patrol car, its lights still flashing. There was no ambulance or other cops and he wondered if he were the first on the scene. The patrol car was heading in the direction of the museum and appeared that the accident had occurred while they were in route to the alarm.

There was something strange going on here. He knew it was late, but where were the crowds of curious people. Most of these buildings had apartments above the shops. Everyone around here should have heard the crash and came out to investigate. The disturbance would have to wait as he checked on the victims. Swinging down from the rooftop, Nightwing sat the box in the shadow of the dumpster.

Spotting a homeless guy near the back of the alley, he called out. “I don’t want you touching this, but if you keep it safe until I get back, I’ll give you enough for a warm meal. Deal?”

The bum didn’t acknowledge his offer. Was he asleep? Well, if the box remained safe, Dick decided he would leave the poor guy a twenty anyway.

As he approached, he could see that the airbags had deployed, couldn’t see anyone in the car. Had they wandered away in search of help? He looked in the window, spotting a pile of clothes in the driver and passenger seats . . . mixed in them were piles of gray dust.

A knot formed in his stomach. These people met with the same fate as those at the museum? He glanced into the backseat and groaned. A child’s carseat sat empty but for diaper, a scrap of cloth, and was covered in the fine, powdery substance.

Rushing to the police car, he found the same result. Five more people dead, but why? Who the hell was doing this?

Nightwing looked at the pavement. No skid marks. The drivers had never tried to brake before the collision. Whatever this was, it had killed them first and the accident was a direct result. The collision and the airbags had done their part, shattering the delicate statues on impact.

A trembling hand hovered over his communicator. Should he call Batman? The way their last meeting went, Dick wasn’t confident in his ability to convince Bruce to help if the trouble didn’t threaten Gotham directly. He’d try Batgirl, but he didn’t know if she was even in Gotham. Whoever she was, she spent half her time away. Batman knew who she was but had never shared the news with Robin. Honestly, Dick never really thought about trying to discover her identity, but now he wished he had.

The first thing he was going to have to do, he decided, was warn the city. Would they believe him? One thing he knew, bureaucrats hated things like evacuations, but until he found and neutralized the threat, more people could die. That box and scroll has suddenly become incredibly important. How they connected to this, he didn’t know - yet, but Nightwing knew in his gut that they were central to his investigation.

As he turned back to retrieve the box, he spotted a woman curled up near the entrance to one of the buildings. Could she have seen what happened? Might she be able to point him in the direction of the villain? That she didn’t move, worried him. Perhaps she was in shock.

“Ma’am?” He called to her, not willing to startle or frighten her. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

The lighting was dim here but as he approached, Nightwing could see her appearance was shriveled like the guards and the man hiding the back office. He pulled his hand back, not wanting to feel her disintegrate beneath his touch. Seeing a light through the glass door of the building’s lobby, he peered in to see a man standing in front of the front desk with a security guard behind it. The bright light of the lobby exposed the hideous truth. They, like the others, were gray, their features shriveled, their eye sockets empty. Somehow, they had managed to remain upright, frozen in a delicate, lifelike pose until a touch or a breeze caused them to collapse.

His eyes were wide behind the mask, Dick stumbled away. He was having trouble catching his breath as he fought back panic.

It wasn’t just the people at the museum or on street, he realized. Whatever force had done this had penetrated brick and stone, concrete, and steel in order to drain the life of everyone. Glancing up at the apartment buildings and businesses, he began to wonder if there were anyone left alive anywhere on the block. This was no small, localized phenomena . . .

 _God_! How had he missed being hit with it himself? Was there an outer range to it? Had Dick simply been lucky enough to be outside that range when this thing occurred? The idea that there was a range to this thing relieved him, allowed him to get his fear under control but, just for just a moment there, Dick had worried that he was the last person alive on the face of the earth.

Nightwing touched his communicator but _not_ to contact Batman. No matter what their relationship was right now, Dick didn’t want Bruce here, with this - this thing, whatever it was. Not until he knew what he was dealing with and figured out a way to stop it.

Suddenly, the police dispatcher’s voice jolted him out of his head. The disturbance he had been in route to had become much larger in the brief time he had been occupied. Several patrol cars and a SWAT vehicle were already there, and he could hear pleas for ambulances and other emergency personnel as well. Had they found whatever had done this?

Retrieving the box from its hiding place, Nightwing shot a line with his grapple gun to join whatever was happening. He found he preferred the perceived safety of the rooftops tonight, even if it were only imaginary. Taking off towards the disturbance at a run, Nightwing leapt over alleyways with little effort despite carrying the extra weight.

Although, the wind felt good on his face, there was something in the air. He was surprised by a sneeze. Frowning, Dick wiped at his face and tasted dust on his tongue.

 _Oh God_! Dick choked as his brain registered what it was. _No_!

Dropping the box, he left it tumbling across the roof’s asphalt surface. Stumbling, he fell to his knees in the corner and threw up. Dick spit and wiped his mouth, then pulled his nasal filters from his wrist compartment. Picking up the box, Dick shoved all thoughts of what was blowing around in the air from his mind. He would continue on but this time, he would keep his mouth closed.

* * *

Li watched his partner run in the direction of the disturbance. Harry would need him to have his back. Li placed a hand over his weapon as he rushed to catch up. He saw Harry moving from one lump of dust and cloth to another.

 _Dear God, all of those piles used to be people_? Li couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

Scanning the surrounding area, it was then he noticed . . . All of those who had been changed had been on just one side of the street. The theater sat at the end of the block where Hemming Street met Halyard. The park lay only a block south of here, but what lay north? The phenomena seemed to have spread here from that direction.

Harry stopped at the corner, looking to his right. Suddenly Harry raised his weapon.

“Shit. Harry, wait for me, damn you!” Li yelled as he sprinted the rest of the distance.

“Li, I need you!”

As Li was rounding the corner, he saw Harry confronting a woman some ways off. _What the hell_?

“Stop where you are and put your hands on your head.”

The woman appeared to be unarmed. What was Harry doing? But as she passed under a street lamp, he could see she had skin similar to the descriptions given by Phoebe and the street tough: pale gray like the color of the dust piles, but she wasn’t shriveled, nor was she dead. She wore a floor-length black robe and her head was covered by a headdress of some sort.

 _Are those feathers_?

She was tall but not unusually so. The skirt was split and flowed around her calves as if the wind were blowing, except . . . there was no wind. Not even the slightest breeze.

“Harry,” Li called, worried. His partner still held his gun pointed at the female as if she were dangerous. “Harry, take it easy.” He needed to de-escalate the situation. It was possible that the woman was another victim to this illness or whatever this was. Li un “Ma’am, you need to stop!”

Harry was advancing on the woman who continued ignoring his commands. Li wasn’t as close, so maybe Harry could see something that Li couldn’t. _Was she on drugs_ , he wondered? She looked a little out of it. To be safe, Li unsnapped his holster in case he needed to draw.

“Get down on the ground,” Harry began yelling. “Get down on the ground!”

As Li neared, Li could see her more clearly. He blinked at the female’s otherworldly features. It wasn’t just her skin color that was off. He thought her hair was covered by a feathered headdress of some sort. She was exotic, even beautiful but for her eyes. Strange, golden eyes, alien, cold. Large and very round, like a bird’s eye. She refused to acknowledge Harry at all as she took in the buildings and lights of the marquee with curiosity. She turned her head in short, sharp, jerky motions, as a bird might. She reminded him of an eagle he saw once at the aviary in Gotham. It was unnerving.

“I gave you a command, damn it.” Harry holstered his weapon, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

Whatever she was, Li no longer believed her to be human. He advanced slowly, watching for any sudden moves. He pulled his weapon, holding it on her while Harry could secure her.

His partner touched her forearm to slap the cuff on her and froze. As if Harry wasn’t even there, she kept moving, her expression serene and her attention apparently on the architecture, the building lights, everywhere but the two cops who had been yelling at her. As her arm pulled free of Li’s partner, however, Harry’s hand began disintegrating as the gray traveled up his arm.

To Li’s horror, the gray could be seen spreading up Harry’s neck and onto his face. This wasn’t instantaneous as the witnesses had claimed, but Li understood now, that the phenomenon wasn’t a weapon or illness. It was _her_ . . .

His partner seemed to shrink beneath his clothes. His face began to wrinkle, shriveling as an old rotted apple might.

“Stop what you are doing, right now,” Jimmy screamed. “Stop it! Stop, or I swear I will shoot you!”

But it was too late. In less than thirty seconds, Harry’s entire body had dried up, his eyes looked like raisons, hanging slightly from their sockets and then he was gone. His ash swirled briefly in the currents of air caused by the gray woman’s wake before settling on the pavement next to his abandoned uniform.

As the woman closed the distance between them, Li’s fear grew exponentially with every step. There was a weird clicking followed by a scraping noise that became louder the closer she came. He looked down and discovered the sound was coming from the talons on the pavement as she walked.

Coming to his senses, Li fired his Glock at her as rapidly as he could, emptying the magazine in an effort to stop her. She killed all those people. She killed his partner – one of a handful of good, honest cops left in this godforsaken city.

But still she came.

Grabbed his radio, he screamed into it, “Officer down, officer down! Shots fired! Where the hell is my backup?” Releasing the radio, Li backed up as he shoved a new magazine into his gun and adjusted his stance.

She kept coming, unconcerned. It was as if the bullets went unnoticed. Li knew he couldn’t have missed, not at this range. His heart was pounding out of his chest as his adrenaline worked overtime, dumping a shitload of the hormone into his bloodstream.

Suddenly a large, black bird swooped down in front of him, so close its wings brushed his face. Li stumbled backward, dodging as it came at him again. It was huge. Easily the size of an eagle but didn’t look like any eagle he had ever seen before. _A raven_ , he thought crazily, but he didn’t think ravens could grow to this size.

It was joined by another and then another, taking turns divebombing him, their talons outstretched as they tried to tear of his face. Terrorized, Li turned his gun at the birds. The ravens flew higher, though not leaving the area, but circling as if waiting for him to run out of ammo. He shook his head his thoughts, trying and failing to control the panic coursing through him.

Gasping and wheezing, Li spun around to find where the woman had gone. His mind worried she would turn up right behind him like those psycho killers in the horror movies. He found her standing in the intersection staring at the theater marquee’s lights.

As if aware of his scrutiny, the woman turned her head towards him and those merciless gold eyes, just for a moment, met his. With a jolt, Li felt a wave of warmth sweeping down his legs as he lost control of his bladder. When the birds came at him again, Li threw his gun at them and ran for the patrol car. Bullets had no effect; his gun was useless.

* * *

Five minutes later, fifteen from the original call for backup, several patrol cars skidded to a halt next to Li and Calvert’s car, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Officers found Li curled up in the backseat, unresponsive, and stinking of fear and urine. The area, littered with piles of clothes and dust, was abandoned of people except for a single woman sitting calmly at a table in front of the local bistro.

Hoping the woman could shed light on what had happened, two of the newly arrived officers approached her . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REACTIONS??
> 
> Have I managed to creep you out?


	4. The Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it a blessing or a curse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Language, Disturbing Imagery, & Death . . .

The sound of birds screeching and beating wings filled the night air as Nightwing landed on the roof of the building that neared the intersection where Halyard crossed Hemming. Setting the box down in a secure location, he peered over the ledge and straight into chaos.

 _Birds_! _Hundreds_ of them . . . big and black, and out very late. According to his chronometer, it was nearing midnight.

They were circling like a tornado in the middle of the street. Every few seconds, Nightwing would catch a glimpse of the action going on at the center of this feathered vortex. Flashing red light and blue lights of several cruisers were parked nearby while inside the whirlpool, numerous officers were shooting at the black birds in self-defense but there were too many for them to handle.

A ricocheting bullet against the ledge where he stood had Nightwing stepped back out of the line of fire.

How the hell could he help them? Checking his utility compartments, Nightwing pulled out several smoke pellets. With luck, this would confuse and disorient the birds enough to scatter them, allowing the police to escape to the shelter of their vehicles. As he prepared to throw them from the safety of his perch, he spotted _her_.

The birds parted only briefly but it was enough for Nightwing to see there was a woman trapped in the middle of the avian assault. Not a cop, whoever she was, she looked to be a civilian. Several birds had latched onto her back. _Probably caught in her hair_ , he thought. How she hadn’t been caught by one of the dozens of stray bullets was a miracle but if she remained there, it was only a matter of time.

His first duty was to the civilian. He would have to provide help the police while on the fly and hoped that someone upstairs would be watching over him as he did it. Shooting a line to the antennae atop the building opposite his location, Nightwing leapt into the fray.

Approaching the swirling murmuration, Nightwing flung a handful of smoke pellets. As the smoke billowed out, he entered the maelstrom and was immediately struck by several birds. They were large, enough so their weight and speed ensured he would be black and blue in the morning. Beaks and talons struck him in several location, incredibly tearing his Kevlar suit and slicing a gash across his left cheekbone, barely an inch below his eye. He couldn’t imagine how much damage he would have taken had his new uniform hadn’t been reinforced. As it was, he felt every blow.

The impacts sent him spinning. He caught glimpse of her, and using his legs to angle his trajectory, Nightwing was able to catch her around the waist.

“Hang on,” he yelled to her doing his best to protect her from the buffeting, but the birds surprisingly missed them on their way through. Although she stiffened in his arms, she didn’t fight him for which he was grateful. He used his body to protect her as best he could from the hail of bullets. “You’re safe. I got you.”

A powerful burning sensation tore across his side as one of those bullets grazed his rib cage. Tightening his grip, Nightwing lifted his legs on the upswing and hit the recoil switch on his grapple, letting the gun do the work. As soon as they cleared the edge of the building, he let her go but his own legs collapsed from under him and sent Nightwing tumbling across the tar and gravel rooftop. Although, his suit saved him from most of the damage, Dick knew he would still be picking gravel out of his skin all along the right side where the suit had been compromised. He struggled back to his feet.

“Are you alright?” he asked the woman, pressing a hand over the bullet wound in his side. She was standing upright, he noticed, and wasn’t swaying, at least. “Are you hurt?”

Nightwing limped over to the edge of the roof to see if the smoke bombs had disrupted the ravens and allowed the cops to get to cover. _Too big to be crows_ , he thought. _Maybe ravens . . . If so, they were the biggest ravens he had ever seen_. Could Scarecrow have upped his game? He hadn’t heard anything chatter about an Arkham breakout. While this wasn’t Gotham, Bludhaven was only an hour away, and any breakouts were reported to neighboring cities as well. But this seemed unlikely since Nightwing knew the Master of Fear didn’t often step outside of Gotham.

Peering over the edge, ravens suddenly swooped up the side of the building, nearly knocking him over. Stumbling back from the edge, Nightwing prepared to defend the woman and himself from the onslaught.

“Run for the door,” Nightwing yelled at the woman as he readied himself to take the brunt of the next attack. “I’ll cover for you! Don’t worry.” He limped in her direction. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

His first thought was that she must be in shock because she neither answered him nor followed his directions. It was then that he got his first good look at her . . .

 _She’s no civilian_ , was his next thought.

Her skin resembled that of a corpse, a pale gray color. The feathers he had believed belonged to ravens that were attacking her were actually replacing her hair. She was staring at him with large golden eyes. He was close enough now to see that the whites were jaundiced yellow and her irises were a deep gold color with double rings around them of orange and gray. The way she tilted her head as she studied him, with bird-like movements, was disturbing.

 _Is_ she _the one that I’m looking for_? _Did_ she _kill all those people_? The answers came to him even as the questions formed in his mind.

The ravens were landing all around the two of them, the rooftop, the antennae, on the nearby buildings, lamp posts and traffic lights. Their presence seemed ominous, sinister, and the birds watched him with an unnerving focus. By this time, there was no doubt left that the woman controlled the birds. He knew in his gut that _she_ was responsible for all the death this night . . . but how did she do it?

 _Birds didn’t cause people to shrivel and turn to dust_.

Fear like no other slithered through his veins, crawling up his spine as he realized he was staring into the face of his own mortality. His adrenal glands had dumped an enormous load of hormones into his blood system and he struggled hard to reject the fight or flight instinct and remain standing perfectly still. As the woman took a step in his direction, he couldn’t help flinching. His involuntary reaction was to retreat, and he took a half a step back before stopping himself. Any movement in any direction would lead to him ending up like the guards in the museum.

 _Don’t move. Just . . . don’t move_.

 _This is stupid_ , his mind screamed at him, _run_! But his gut knew staying stock still was his only course of action if he wanted to live. The conflicting urges made his body tremble as sweat formed across his brow.

Those strange golden eyes were staring at him as if the woman were searching his soul trying to determine whether or not he deserved to exist. Then she spoke.

“ **You . . . _saved_ me**?” she asked him. Her head tilted with curiosity.

The words had weight to them. Dick felt each of them brush over his body like a physical presence. Her voice was like the roar of a mighty wind and within the wind he could hear dozens of voices speaking to him in perfect unison. They wrapped around his chest like a vise, squeezing, making each breath, each heartbeat difficult.

Behind his mask, his eyes widened at the terrible realization that her voice alone was capable of killing him.

* * *

_He is frightened_ . . .

This didn’t concern her. All feared her. That he was acting as if he were facing a dangerous animal meant he understood the danger to his own mortality. This was good. It meant he was not stupid, but she was surprised when he didn’t run as all creatures did in her presence . . . All, that is, save her favored pets. She watched as he licked his lips, gathering his courage.

 _How peculiar, that_ . . .

“ **Who are you**?” she asked. She wondered why he would attempt to save her when all others sought to destroy or entrap her.

 _Perhaps he is a god_? He had flown her into the air without the aid of wings. It was this act that had saved him from her power. She had hesitated out of curiosity.

He had passed through her ravens and the flying metal without harm . . .

 _No_ , she corrected herself. _He_ is _hurt_.

She could smell the blood on him. Her eyes immediately found each of his wounds he received while attempting to aid her. The fact that he could bleed didn’t take away from his deed. She knew well from experience that even gods could bleed. But the question remained as to why a god would bother to save her when a god must know his ultimate end lies with her?

“My name is R- . . . Nightwing,” he told her.

His voice shook slightly but he did not stammer. He had started to give her a different name she noticed.

 _Night-Wing_ . . . Her bluish-tinted lips lifted slightly. A strange sensation with which she was unfamiliar. _I am_ . . . _amused_ , she thought, plucking the knowledge of the emotion out of the ether.

As she moved toward him, he stiffened, taking another step back. But then he halted, holding his ground when she approached. His courage was unusual. Stopping in front of him, she breathed in his scent, a mix of sweat, fear, and blood, discovering it was oddly pleasing. Her eyes followed the bead of red as it slid slowly down his cheek. She saw it had come from a deep scratch one of her pets had given him. Her gaze dropped to the ragged tear along his side where the blood was oozing. Reaching out with one clawed finger, she dragged the talon across it. Where she touched, the wound began bleeding freely.

He hissed at the sting, his hand moving to apply pressure, but he remained in place. Far more used to beings cowering in her presence, she was fascinated by his audacity. It was, she decided, refreshing.

She brought up the crimson drop to her own bloodless lips. Watching the artificial lighting of the city as it glistened off of its surface a moment, she slid the talon into her mouth to taste him.

She blinked, surprised. Never before had she experienced these particular emotions, yet he had roused in her several within only a few short minutes of one another.

“ **Human** ,” she announced unnecessarily.

“Um . . . Yes.” Uncertain of what she expected from him, he confirmed it as true.

She frowned at him. “ **But you flew. Humans don’t fly.** ”

The corner of his mouth tipped up as he held his grapple gun as an explanation. “Actually, we do but, no, not in the way you mean. I take it that you aren’t . . . Um, human, I mean?”

“ **I am . . .** **_MORE._** ”

His body shook in response to her words. Her lips lifted once more, watching him fight his instincts.

He rallied his courage to ask her his own question. “Why were you attacking the police?”

“ **They attacked me** ,” she said simply.

“And why were they attacking you?” he asked, clarifying. “Because of those you killed?”

She looked unconcerned. “ **When do they not? Tis the nature of all creatures to fight for their existence.** **It is of no consequence as death comes to all at The End.** ”

“S-So, you _were_ going to kill them?” The Night Wing switched his position, taking a fighting stance.

Her lips twitched. She was aware that he understood that attacking her would lead to his own demise. Still, she found his boldness entertaining.

“ **Of course** ,” she said quite reasonably. “ **I am replete. I find my curiosity currently outstrips my appetite.** ” She considered him briefly before admitting, “ **I have never spoken with one of you before. You . . . _amuse_ me.**”

Despite her admission, the human remained on his guard. She was not offended. His wariness was a sign of his intelligence. Although, had she wanted it, his life would have been hers between one breath and the next.

“So happy to oblige,” he said sarcastically.

His sarcasm was lost on her, however, for it was his word choice that captured her attention. For moment, the intensity of her gaze seemed to pierce his soul and her lips turned down.

“ **But you are _not_ , are you**?” she murmured. “ **Not really**.”

The Night Wing frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She studied him as she compared their existence. “ **It is my nature to have a solitary existence** ,” she said eventually. “ **I do not seek companionship. If I converse, it has only ever been with my peers . . . Gods** ,” she clarified.

“You mean like Zeus or Athena?”

“ **No,” she clarified for him, “These beings are not my equal. They, too, will fall to The End.** ”

He blinked at her. “But you call yourself a goddess?”

“ **I am The Goddess** ,” she said to him.

“ _The_ Goddess . . .? Like the One who created everything?”

“ **No. I am not The Creator**. **I am Dal‘Riata Abn’la. I am The Destroyer. I am The End.** ”

She watched him grow pale. “The end of w-what? The world?”

“ **Of Everything.** ”

* * *

_The End of Everything_ . . .

It was not so much what she had said as the way she had said it. Matter-of-fact, without a hint of hubris. Unlike some of the more powerful creatures he’d had the misfortune to come up against over the last few years, _she_ did not feel the need for arrogance. _She_ was what _she_ was . . . But then there was that bit she’d said about other gods, though - that they, too, would fall before her.

 _Sh-She’s a god-killer_. The realization made his knees feel a little watery.

“But not tonight,” he asserted with a bravado that he did not feel.

She ignored his challenge much like a man might from the ant. It was of no consequence to one such as _she_.

“ **You grieve** ,” Dal ‘Riata announced abruptly.

The change of subject threw him and images of first his parents, then of Bruce, Alfred, and the manor flashed through his mind before finally settling on Bruce. This latest loss was perhaps the most painful, the weight of it was crushing him.

“My parents were murdered years ago,” he said slowly.

“ **There is that** ,” she acknowledged, “ **but no, that grief has ebbed while another increases. Tis not death that saddens you.** ”

“M-My guardian.” He gaped at her. “How did you . . .? Are you reading my mind?”

“ **Tis not so difficult** ,” She tilted her head in that birdlike fashion that freaked him out. “ **You are very troubled. I think that, for you, death would provide much relief.** ”

When she raised her hand, Nightwing moved back, providing distance. Pulling out his escrima sticks, he flicked the switch to enable the stun option. It would be naught, but a token gesture and he knew it.

“I have no desire for the Big Sleep just yet, goddess.”

That sly smile was back. “ **It is inevitable.** ”

“That may be, but I will never go willingly into that embrace,” he snapped with a hint of anger. He wasn’t _that_ desperate yet.

She tilted her head again as if she were reading something inside of him. “ **I do not believe that is entirely true,”** she told him, **“however,”** she smiled grandly, teeth shining behind her bloodless lips, “ **I will honor your request.** ”

Dick let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he felt compelled to say.

Taking a couple of steps to the side, Dick looked down at the action going on below. The four officers had been injured, though from his perch none appeared critical. More flashing lights from more patrol cars and other emergency vehicles had arrived during his peculiar conversation. He knew that without his ill-conceived actions, there would have been four more corpses to add to the already staggering number of dead.

One of the arriving officers spotted him, pointing. As Nightwing moved back out of sight, he worried about the outcome of another confrontation tonight. He tried to come up with some ideas to avoid that outcome, but he was coming up short. He couldn’t just ask them to allow him to deal with the threat because the cops here didn’t know or trust him yet.

Maybe if he discovered why she was here he could convince her to leave. This sounded ridiculous even to him, but she wasn’t killing anyone while she was talking to him, whereas she would if they began shooting at her.

Turning back to the goddess, he asked, “Why are you here? Why now?”

“ **For the same reason I am anywhere** ,” she told him.

“Which is?” he growled a little in his frustration. Getting a straight-forward answer from her was proving exceptionally difficult. She had admitted that she never spoke to anyone, so maybe she hadn’t much experience with communication.

 _And why would she bother if everyone she spoke with was about to die_?

“ **To destroy** ,” she answered as she looked up at the sky. The city lights made it hard to see any but the brightest stars. “ **It is your universe’s time. When nothing else exists, I will travel to another realm and then to another and another until only I and the Creator remain.** ”

“Universe?” The word came out weakly. _It’s n_ _ot just earth, then, but the entire universe in danger_ . . . “We’re not ready.”

“ **Death waits for no one.** ” Those cold eyes landed on him again.

“Is there no way to convince you to let us be . . . for now? Come back later?”

Those eyes narrowed as her lips turned down. His trembling became full-on quaking beneath her merciless stare, but he couldn’t leave this be. He would die anyway when the universe ended, but if by his death, he could convince her to spare the universe . . . He couldn’t imagine his life being worth so much, but it was all he had. The idea that Bruce and Alfred would cease to exist, their bodies turned to ash and dust . . .

“ **So many worries for one so young** ,” she murmured. “ **You sought to save me and now you seek to save others with no thought for yourself. Such altruism is quite rare.”**

“How could you know this if you’ve never bother to speak to another before me?”

 **“I know what I know,”** she only said.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and scared. “What does that mean exactly? You know everything, then why bother asking me questions?”

 **“I choose,”** and left the mystery there. **“It is a grand resolve you have and yet, I wonder . . . Is there no one to save you?** ”

Bruce appeared instantly in his mind’s eye and Dick shook his head to clear it. He had burned that bridge when he had left Gotham this final time. This wasn’t about him anyway. What good would it do to save himself if everything else he loved died around him?

“Once maybe, but not anymore.”

The words slipped out involuntarily. He hadn’t meant to say anything. He startled abruptly when in the space of a blink, the goddess was suddenly standing before him, mere inches away. Whatever space he had managed to keep between them had vanished in an instant. Was she that fast or could she teleport herself across distances?

“ ** _I_ will do it**,” she declared to him. “ ** _I_ will save you**.”

“You . . . what? But . . . I don’t need . . .”

 **“Saving?** **Ah, but you do** ,” she corrected him gently. “ **You _should_ be grateful. I have never chosen to bestow a gift upon any being in all of my existence.**”

Another spike of fear. His heart was pounding out of his chest. “I am afraid of your gift, goddess. I don’t want to die.” There were moments when the thought had crossed his mind, but faced with the kind of death the goddess dealt . . . He remembered the gray, shriveled corpses before they disintegrated into that powdery ash, Dick wondered how much that death had hurt.

“ **Say my name** ,” she commanded, her voices swelling with an authority he was incapable of disobeying.

“D-Dal ‘Riata . . .” he stumbled on the unfamiliar name.

“ **Abn’la** ,” she coaxed him, and he repeated with a quavering voice.

“ **It is not death, my Night Wing** ,” she assured him, running a talon delicately across his cheek.

Unable to control his fear anymore, Dick wanted nothing more than to run from her touch, but he was frozen in place, unable to move anything but his eyes.

“ **I merely wish to take your worries from you, send you back to a simpler time.** ”

“No . . . P-Please, I don’t . . .”

The talon touched his lips, cutting off his plea as she interrupted him.

“ **You may thank me now** ,” she whispered.

Using a talon to puncture her thumb, the goddess pressed the black blood against his forehead. Leaning in, she lay cold lips over the mark, bestowing her blessing with a kiss.

Head swirling, darkness crept across his vision.

When he opened his eyes, the goddess was standing across from him on the other side of the roof. The ravens circled in the sky above her head. He blinked as the trance slowly receded. As awareness returned to him, Dick finally glanced at his surroundings only to cry out in horror.

" _Nooooo_ . . .!"

The rooftop was covered in corpses. Gray, shriveled statues in the form of Bludhaven police officers and SWAT. Far more numerous than those fragile remains were the empty uniforms lying in piles everywhere. He estimated at least forty people, maybe more had lost their lives up here. The tar and gravel rooftop was coated with an inch-thick covering of fine dust that shifted and flowed with the breeze around their ankles.

 _My God! What happened? How long was I out of it_?

“What did you do?” he gasped.

“ **What I always do** ,” she answered. The power of her many voices grew, echoing through the deserted streets.

“ **Go home, my Night Wing** ,” Dal ‘Riata told him. “ **I will spare your world for a time and begin my work elsewhere.** ”

“Elsewhere?” He felt lightheaded, shocky. He was having difficulty focusing his thoughts.

“ **I will be back** ,” she told him.

With that ominous promise, the ravens plunged down, surrounded her like a whirlwind, completely obscuring her from view. Then, when they flew away over the tops of the buildings and skyscrapers, she was gone.

He stumbled over the piles of clothing and equipment, struggling to keep his feet under him as he attempted to avoid brushing against those poor souls that still retained their shape. He felt sick and a sob caught in his throat at the innumerable lives that had been lost this night. Catching himself on the small parapet that lined the edge of the roof, he leaned over the edge until he was sure his wouldn’t throw up again.

Everything as far as his eye could see was obscured by dust, the remains of Bludhaven’s citizens swirling through the air, carried away by the gentle breeze. Whipping out his grapple gun, Dick adjusted his aim upon remembering the box he had hidden on the roof across the street – the box covered with strange hieroglyphics.

Somehow, he had to find a way to stop her. That box and its scroll, he hoped, were the key that contained the answer to that burning question.

* * *

The trip back to his apartment had been fraught with close calls. Whatever the goddess had done to him, Nightwing was lucky he hadn't killed himself during the trip home. He was shaking by the time he was easing through the window in his bedroom. Closing the window behind him, he felt ready to collapse.

Every nerve was on fire, every bruise, every scratch, and in particular the gouge along his ribs was alive with pain. The left side of his suit was sticky with his blood. But for all that the wounds were still oozing, none were bleeding freely anymore. If he could clean and bandaged them, they would be fine.

With that in mind, Dick peeled away the first layer of his Nightwing personae with his mask, tossing the scrap atop the box and shoving them both into his closet. He would hide them inside the hidden compartment in the back where he stored his costume and weapons until he could run the box and his samples to Star Labs in the morning.

Dick leaned against the wall as the room began to spin around him. He needed to get to the bathroom before he lost his stomach. Dropping his weapons and gloves, he watched as one of the escrima sticks roll across his floor. He left it where it lay. He could get it later, once he was feeling better. Right now, his joints ached too much.

“This is the last time you are allowing any goddess to bless you,” he growled to himself. _Or maybe it was only the blessings that came from goddesses of destruction that really sucked_.

Tugging at his top, Dick yanked it over his head, tossing it into the tub as he stumbled to the sink. He saw the black mark left on his forehead by the Dal ‘Riata. The substance had already dried. He rubbed at it with his thumb but realized getting rid of it would require more effort than he could spare.

Turning his attention to the slice on his cheek instead, he admitted it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Still, it could get infected if he didn’t treat it. Ravens were scavengers, so who knew what bacteria the scratch might contain. Luckily, his body, while peppered with bruises, had only a few scratches. His body armor had performed adequately, protecting him from the majority of injuries he should have accrued during the course of the night.

The worst area belonged to the gash that a bullet had gouged out of him and the scrapes on his right shoulder and hip. His costume’s material had held up wherever it hadn’t been compromised, but the areas that had been torn by the birds had left the skin beneath scraped raw when he had tumbled across the roof’s asphalt. There were a few pieces of gravel and asphalt left behind, but luckily, it didn't look as bad as it felt.

As he reached for the painkiller, the room tilted and lurched. The darkness swept over him, and Dick’s head met the floor with a sickening thud.

* * *

Crying dragged thirty-year-old Livie out of sleep, the sound making no sense. Blinking, she tried to recognize it. It sounded like a child, but that couldn’t be right. Their building didn’t allow children. Her husband, Marty, groaned, tugging his pillow over his head.

“Livie,” he whined. “Tell the neighbors to turn that racket down. I’ve got to get up early for my shift.”

 _That’s right_ , she thought, _Marty had to work first shift in_ . . . she glanced at the clock, wincing, _in four hours_. It was one o’clock in the morning.

Rolling out of bed, Livie reached for her robe, dragging it on to help ward off the March chill. Her slippers scuffed across the hardwood floor as she shuffled out into the living room and opened the door to the hallway.

Livie squinted into the light from the two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. She saw the Willis’s opening their door and peering out. She met Frank and Doris in front of the door to the apartment separating theirs. Scowling, Frank scratched at his morning beard. Doris smiled, looking way too perky for the middle of the night. The retired couple had lived in their apartment since their marriage fifty-five years ago. Despite their age, Livie knew they wouldn’t move, even though the building lacked an elevator.

“What the hell is that racket?” Frank growled at her.

Livie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she fended off his grumpiness, “But it sounds like a child.”

“That’s what I told him,” Doris said as she elbowed her husband out of the way. “Didn’t I say that, Frank? It sounds like a child.”

“Can’t be,” he groused, rubbing his side irritably. “No kids allowed.”

Dorus harrumphed. “It wasn’t always that way,” she told Livie as if imparting a great secret. “We raised our David right here in this apartment. Didn’t we, Frank?”

Livie smiled. She had heard this story a million times since she and Marty had moved in five years ago. “It’s coming from the new guy’s apartment,” Livie noted.

“He seemed like a nice young man,” Doris nodded. “Didn’t he, Frank?”

Frank grunted. “Barely out of short pants, that one is. Think it’s him that’s making all that noise?”

Livie blinked. While the new guy _had_ appeared to be young, he was hardly a child. This sounded to Livie like a very young child, maybe even a toddler. Whoever was crying, he was extremely upset about something.

“Hardly. Maybe he fell asleep with his television on,” Livie suggested. It was possible, too, that he had a girlfriend with a child staying over but Livie had noticed no visitors coming or going in the week since he moved in.

Frank snorted. “Damned inconsiderate,” he grumbled as he marched over to the door. “How can anyone sleep through all that screeching?”

He banged on the door with his fist. The door was solid wood and heavy, but it rattled on its hinges with Frank’s pounding.

“ ** _Hey, shut that racket off in there_** ,” he roared, determined to make himself heard. “ ** _People are trying to sleep_**!”

The crying stopped for a few short seconds then, when it began again, it was even louder and higher pitch than before. Even Frank appeared a little startled by this. The three adults exchanged looks.

“That sounded like a real baby. You don’t think . . .” Doris began. “Could there actually be an child in there?”

“No kids allowed, Doris,” Frank reminded her.

Doris nodded immediately in agreement. “That’s right,” she said. “We have to go to David’s house to see the grandchildren, don’t we, Frank?”

“Well, it certainly _sounded_ real and it reacted to your pounding,” Livie commented. “I don’t think that’s the TV. Maybe the kid belongs to a girlfriend?”

“Hey, what’s going on up here?”

Livie and the couple turned as Hector from the fourth floor came up the stairs. His apartment was directly below the new tenant’s. He had to be suffering just as much for sharing a ceiling with the guy as the rest of them did sharing walls.

“We think the new tenant might have a child in his apartment,” Livie explained.

“It’s the damned television,” Frank insisted. “No consideration.” Frank pounded on the door again. “ ** _Shut that crap up_** ,” he yelled.

The crying raised in pitch.

“Stop it, Frank,” Doris patted her husband’s shoulder. “You’re scaring the poor thing.”

“What the hell?” Hector rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t Horowitz give him the spiel? . . .”

“No kids allowed,” all four of them quoted together.

“Yes, Hector, we know,” Livie told him.

“Yeah, well, I called down a few minutes ago and told Horowitz to get his ass up here,” Hector said around a yawn.

“I’m getting to old for this shit,” Stephan Horowitz complained as he stomped up the stairs. “What the hell is that noise?”

“We think it is a baby,” Livie told him.

“Impossible! No kids allowed,” Stephan barked, ignoring the way the others rolled their eyes at him. “I told him that before I gave him the keys. He said he didn’t have any kids and he didn’t have a girlfriend.”

Hector raised his eyebrows. “A good-looking guy like that has no girlfriend? Do you think he likes the fellows?” he asked, suddenly interested.

Stephan snorted, “Keep it in your pants, Hector. I’d be surprised if Grayson isn’t still jailbait.”

Hector snapped his fingers. “He’s certainly built like he’s all man. Just saying.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Then where did this kid come from?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out now,” Stephan told them, moving to the door.

“Already knocked,” Frank told him, “twice.”

Stephan knocked and called out. “ ** _Grayson_? _Open up_! _It’s the super_ . . .**”

After a couple of minutes passed with no answer except for more crying, Stephan pulled out a wad of keys from his plaid robe and searched out the one he needed. He slid it in the lock. The knob turned but the door refused to budge. There was a brand-new deadbolt on the door and, apparently, Grayson was using it. Horowitz rattled it in frustration and the crying stopped briefly before starting back up.

“Do you think this Grayson guy is hurt?” Livie asked. “Maybe that’s why he’s not answering.”

Hector clicked his tongue. “You mean like a drug addict? You think he’s OD’d or something?”

“Not necessarily,” Livie denied. “I meant that maybe he fell and hit his head?”

Stephan gaped at her. “You think he’s bleeding all over my floors?”

Doris looked alarmed. “Oh, no . . . Should I call 911?”

“I don’t know!” Livie threw up her hands in frustration.

Stephan was looking alarmed now. “Oh no! No, no, no . . . _No_ 911,” he declared. “They come in with their muddy shoes and crowbars and axes. They tear up my hallways and destroy my doors,” He shuddered. “No, no 911.”

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?” Frank bellowed. “Listen, Horowitz, we pay our rent on time . . .”

Stephan held up a hand, thinking. After a moment, he nodded. “Okay, listen. The kid gave me a number to use in emergencies. Told me not to use it but, you know, I got to have someone to call if someone croaks or whatever.”

No one said anything. Everyone in the building knew that Horowitz wasn’t concerned about the tenant’s next of kin. His concern was in finding someone to pay any back rent the tenant might have owed or for paying for repairs or damages the tenant might have caused.

* * *

Stomping downstairs, Stephan headed to his rolodex he kept with names of tenants’ next of kin or someone who might be financially responsible when rent was past due. Whoever answered could help Grayson move his crap out if Horowitz discovered the kid had broken the rules by harboring a child . . . Stephan had spent long minutes making sure Grayson understood them and everything.

Damn shame, too. Grayson had seemed nice enough, but it appeared that youngsters like him were all alike. If it wasn’t all-night parties, it was always something else. Stephan didn’t harbor no druggies and the like, but children were no better in his book. All of them destroyed the property and that cost money, damn it. And in the end, the results were always the same – Phone calls at all hours from irate neighbors complaining about the noise or the smell or the needles or the toys.

Finding the card under Grayson’s apartment number, Stephan picked up the phone. Grayson had stressed that he wasn’t to call the number listed except in emergencies.

 _Well, this counts as an emergency_. _Nobody can sleep and if Grayson won’t open the door_. . .

 _Alfred Pennyworth_ , Stephan read. It was a Gotham number. _Damn_!

“Couldn’t have been someone local, could it?” he complained, muttering under his breath as he dialed the number. He made a mental note to add long-distance charges to the kid’s rent.

* * *

“Understood, sir,” Alfred spoke into the mic on his headset. “Yes, the boy is fine. He was sleeping when I checked on him an hour ago. He will be pleased to know that you have captured the rest of the men. That is very good news.”

He was currently watching the video that was streamed to the cave from the camera fitted into the cowl. He had hated watching the video when they first implemented it but for occasions like this one. Watching Batman sweep through the building where the latest cache of drugs was being distributed to the middlemen that headed up the various neighborhoods, including Jason’s old one, Alfred hated it for different reasons.

The violence that the Batman would mete out was to be expected but, when he had been accompanied by Master Robin, the violence had been restricted to only the amount that was required to accomplish their objective. For several months following Master Richard’s angry departure, Batman’s barbarity had risen to correspond with Master Bruce’s level of frustration. However, during these last few weeks . . .

Well, Alfred would have to admit this was the first time his sympathies lay with the criminals.

“Will you be returning to the cave shortly, sir?” he asked.

“No, not yet.” Batman’s voice sounded tinny through the earpiece. “I got a name from one of the men here tonight. I want to check it out to make certain the information provided is legitimate. I doubt his willingness to testify before a grand jury will be as enthusiastic as it was for me tonight. I need to find the evidence to connect the name to the drugs.”

“Your interrogation methods are likely to be frowned upon by a court of law.” Alfred added dryly.

There was a hint of a smirk in the growl when Batman answered. “It’s not as if I would deliberately drop him, Agent A.”

“Premeditation aside, it is nice to see you in a _good_ mood for a change,” Alfred murmured sarcastically as his pocket buzzed. “Very well, sir, I will leave you to it then.”

Puzzled as to who was calling at this hour, Alfred dipped into his pocket to retrieve his personal cell phone. The number of people who had his personal number could be counted on one hand and, coming this late at night did not bode well.

Looking down at the caller ID, he didn’t recognize the number, but he did know the area code. _Bludhaven_ . . . and that could only mean the reason behind Batman’s most recent bout of foul temper was in trouble.

Taking off his headset, he answered the call.

“Master Richard?” Alfred answered carefully. “Are you in trouble?”

“Master who?” came a gruff voice over the line. “I’m looking for an Alfred Pennyworth. Is that you?”

“Indeed. May I ask who you are and how you came about this number?” Alfred demanded. He felt a ball of fear beginning to form in his center.

Alfred had been concerned for Master Richard’s welfare after he had heard about this latest row from Jason – particularly after learning where Master Richard had fled. Certainly, Alfred knew the young man was more than capable of handling himself against the dregs of society, but it was just . . . _Bludhaven_? Gotham’s criminals appeared almost saintly when compared to those who trolled the streets of that city.

Who knew what dangers their boy would face there? And as Master Richard was determined to go it alone, he would be doing so without the aid of Batman or his young Titan friends. After this latest falling out, however, Alfred had agreed to keep the lad’s location a secret from his employer. This was proving to be difficult since Master Bruce had been searching for information on Richard, whether to ease his conscience or his worry Alfred didn't know, but after kicking the boy out of the only home Richard had known since the death of his parents, he thought it fitting that his employer should worry over the young master’s welfare.

“My name’s Stephan Horowitz . . .” said the man on the phone.

“I do not recognize your name, sir. I do not mean to blunt but it is late. If there is a point to this call, I would appreciate it if you would get to it posthaste.”

“Yeah, don’t need to get all hoity-toity like on me, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Mr. Horowitz complained. “I have a tenant here that gave me your name as his emergency contact. A Richard Grayson. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Alfred’s heart skipped a beat. Although he knew now that Mr. Horowitz wasn’t likely a kidnapper, Alfred remained on alert. “It does. What, pray tell, is the nature of the emergency? Is Master Richard alright?”

“Ah, well, see, it’s like this. I don’t really know,” Horowitz sighed. “Grayson refuses to answer, and since he added a new deadbolt, I can’t get in to check.”

“Have you considered that he might not be home?” Alfred reasoned. He was quite certain the boy was out patrolling his new city. He wondered for what purpose the building’s superintendent needed to contact one of his tenants in the middle of the night.

“That’s part of the problem. His kid has been screaming straight through for the past forty minutes and I told him when he moved in that the building doesn’t allow for no kids,” Horowitz told him.

Alfred blinked. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake. Master Richard doesn’t have children.”

Horowitz snorted into the phone. “I don’t know about ‘Master’ Richard, but Richard Grayson had a child in his apartment. This goes against the rules, mind you. Anyways, the kid’s been screaming his lungs out and waking up the neighbors. Grayson isn’t answering the door nor is he doing anything to quiet the brat down. Now, someone needs to deal with this as my other paying tenants are complaining. I’d hate to be forced to call the cops or ring up CPS.”

Alfred had no idea what situation that Master Richard had gotten himself into, but the last thing anyone needed at this point was the addition of the police or Child Protective Services. He didn’t know where this child had come from, but no situation had ever been improved, in Alfred’s experience, with CPS’ involvement.

“Very well,” Alfred conceded. “I can be there first thing in the morning.” He began making plans to rearrange his day to accomodate this trip.

“Ah, see, that right there . . . That’s a no go,” Mr. Horowitz disagreed quickly before Alfred could disconnect the call. “This needs to be dealt with right now, tonight.”

“I’m afraid I simply cannot get there before morning,” Alfred argued.

He did not wish to drag Master Jason out at this time of night and he certainly couldn’t leave the boy alone in the manor unattended. Jason had only been in the manor for a few short months and was often plagued by nightmares. And Alfred was reluctant to admit, but he didn’t fully trust him not to don the Robin uniform and sneak out on his own.

“Right,” Horowitz sighed. “The police it is then . . .”

“ _No_! Wait,” he sighed. “I’ll need to contact someone else to come in my stead. He should arrive in an hour. Is that agreeable?” Alfred said quickly.

“An hour? That’s a long time to listen to this kid screaming . . .”

“I’m sure you noticed when dialing this number that it has a Gotham area code. The city is at least an hour from Bludhaven,” Alfred reminded him. “The best we can do is an hour.”

“Okay, fine,” Horowitz agreed grudgingly. “But three o’clock comes along without someone showing up, I’m calling the cops. There are laws against leaving little kids alone. You get my drift?”

“Your drift has been ‘gotten,’ sir, I assure you.” Alfred told him stiffly. “You can expect Master Wayne approximately an hour from now.”

“Okay . . . So, who’s this Master Wayne fellow you’re talking about?”

“He is Richard’s father.” Alfred lied easily and ended the call.

 _A child_. _Dear Lord, Master Richard, whatever have you gotten yourself into now_? Alfred wondered silently at this as he prepared to contact Batman. The night was bound to end in an argument and he, for one, would not wish to be in Richard’s shoes tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REACTIONS?? Tell me what you think . . .


	5. Bats and Boo-Boos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going to Bludhaven in response to a startling call, Bruce discovers Dick is missing and a stranger has been left in his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Language and Some Small Violence . . .

Batman shifted gears and the Batmobile growled in response, leaping forward with the additional power. There was little in the way of traffic out at this time of night and he was making good time. Despite this, Batman’s lips were white as he clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring as he worked to control his temper.

 _All this time_ . . .

All this time Bruce had been punishing himself with guilt over their last argument, worrying about where Dick was, if he was safe, and Alfred had known for nearly _two weeks_! The older man had believed Bruce had been too hard on the boy in his effort to keep him safe and he had been forced to listen to numerous lectures on the ineffectiveness of his tough love.

The man had claimed what Bruce practiced was not tough love, that it could hardly be considered ‘ _love_ ’ at all. But Alfred didn’t understand, and Bruce didn’t know the words that could explain it. Dick had been pulling away from him, soon he would lose him altogether, but that didn’t mean he’d have to lose him to the likes of the Joker.

The first time Dick had left, after he had been fired, Bruce had been able to keep tabs on his whereabouts through the back entrance into the Teen Titans’ computer system. It wasn’t difficult since the computer had been supplied by WayneTech. Bruce had laid the groundwork for his hack before the computer had even been shipped out. And when the boy had left his friends for Metropolis, Clark had given regular updates on Dick’s condition over the few months he had been there.

So, when Dick had entered the Batcave three and a half weeks ago, Batman had been alerted as soon as Dick’s code was punched into the security system. He had been expecting him, in fact. What he _hadn’t_ been expecting was the costume he had been wearing. Bruce wouldn’t be thanking Clark anytime soon for putting ideas about going solo in the Dick’s head when Bruce had been trying to get him out of crime-fighting for good. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only surprise waiting when Batman came to greet his long-lost son . . .

Jason had been sent to his room for the night after finishing a couple of hours of training earlier. He was _not_ supposed to have been down in the cave at all, let alone trying on Robin’s uniform. But he should have known, should have expected it from the teenager. Bruce had originally thought it would be good incentive to encourage the boy’s training habits but Jason’s fascination with the costume bordered on obsessive.

The fourteen-year-old had only been living in the manor for three months and training for ten weeks. He was far from ready to make his debut as the next Boy Wonder. Dick’s assessment of Jason’s ability had been spot on. Bruce _knew_ that, but when Dick had laid into him, reminding him of how dangerous the job was, Bruce had fell back on his tried and true method of coping with an onslaught of guilt and disappointment: anger.

It had been unfortunate that the argument had gotten so out of hand. Dick’s anger had fed into Bruce’s own and he had no doubt that he had provoked Dick’s in return. The guilt burgeoning from that incident continued to stab at him, growing exponentially since that night he had struck the boy he had come to look on as a son.

 _Dick’s face_ . . . His new mask with its white lenses did nothing to hide the hurt and shock that one thoughtless action had caused. Dick had left after that, all but running away from him. _And Jason_ . . . The boy looked at him differently now, not with disappointment – closer to vindication. It was as if he’d been waiting for Bruce to act just like everyone else did in his life.

Never before had Bruce hit Dick in anger. Of course, it had occurred many times during sparring, even once or twice accidentally but _never_ had it been intentional. Bruce could argue that this hadn’t been intentional either. He certainly hadn't _planned_ it, for God’s sake. It had been an instinctual response to Dick’s shove but how would he ever expect Dick to believe that, let alone Jason who _had_ expected it.

Bruce frowned as he drove, comparing the two boys in his mind.

Jason had no patience. He’d never had a structured day or experienced the need for self-discipline in his life. By contrast, Dick's entire life had been structured and disciplined from the day he was born.

Dick had been living with rules and a set training schedule since he could walk. Self-discipline and a good work ethic had been a way of life because the lives of aerial acrobats depended upon it. He had learned early the value of trust, of strict obedience, and understood without question that the results of disobeying could be deadly. So, when Dick had come to the manor at the heartbreakingly young age of eight, he had already been a well-seasoned athlete of impressive talent. He was used to rigorous training and mind-numbing repetition and already possessed a strong, steady drive for success.

Then there was that well-honed instinct that Dick possessed. The innate ability to read people and situations, it was something that couldn’t be taught. Jason possessed this, too, but currently on a lesser scale. Dick’s natural talent had been the greatest that Bruce had ever seen. While it had made him a phenomenal acrobat in a family of phenomenal acrobats, it has also made him a perfect crime-fighting partner.

Learning had been astonishingly quick for the acrobat, not only judging the situation accurately, but also predicting Batman’s actions at any given time. Robin had known instantly how to aid, assist, and compensate for his partner in the field. It was that bit of magic that had made them the Dynamic Duo, a nickname that had secretly amused Bruce to no end.

It had not been an easy decision to terminate that partnership. Bruce’s delight at having someone share his dark mission eventually began to vie with his growing affection for the boy who had so radically changed his life. He had liked the charismatic boy immediately. Dick’s charm and affable personality was impossible to disregard. It had been a natural progression, a mere half-step, from an easy affection to a father’s love.

Bruce never desired children, so when he discovered suddenly that he did, not just any child would do. This desire wasn’t for his own progeny, however. The yearning he had was to make Dick his son. But in Bruce’s mind, family was precious and parents sacred. He refused to usurp Dick’s father place, even with himself.

Interestingly, he’d had the paperwork for Dick adoption drawn up years ago. The packet still sat in a locked drawer within his desk at work, finished but for Dick’s age and the date. Bruce had even signed it in a sentimental moment – He’d just never submitted them. And if he wasn’t going to go through with the adoption, he certainly wasn’t going to mention it to the boy and risk upsetting him.

But Dick Grayson wasn’t perfect. He had faults as any person. In fact, Dick’s temper and stubbornness could easily rival Bruce’s own. As the boy aged, those two flaws had contributed greatly to the duo’s increasingly explosive arguments. Thankfully, Dick’s temper was gentled by his compassion, his ability to forgive, and by achieving the justice he had so needed following the murder of his parents.

Jason, on the other hand, was angry at the world. Compassion had been beaten out of him at a young age and the betrayal by everyone that he had ever placed his faith in limited the boy’s ability to trust. Abandoned by his mother in death and his father by his own bad life choices, he’d been forced to become independent early, relying only upon his own judgment and decisions. But Jason had his own sense of justice and fair play that provided a foundation upon which Batman hoped to build a partnership. The potential was there if they could overcome the boy’s trust issues and redirect his rage into something productive.

He sighed. Jason was strong and determined but he was no Dick Grayson . . . and Bruce already understood that he never would be. Dick was a world-class athlete with incredible instincts and a strong moral fiber ingrained into his very bones. But Jason had other things going for him. He was a strong, scrappy survivor who relied on his quick reflexes and giant helping of bravado to get him through one day to the next.

* * *

Batman drove around the occasional car with ease. If startled drivers stopped or swerved out of his way, he didn’t notice. He should arrive at the address Alfred given him before the three-a.m. mark, but he would need time to change into civilian attire. It was seldom that the need for Bruce Wayne outweighed the need for Batman, but he always carried a change of clothing in the Batmobile for times such as this.

This was not a predicament in which he had ever expected to find himself: rushing to save a child that might belong to Dick. He tried to think of where he might have gone wrong while raising the boy. Certainly, his lifestyle as a playboy wasn’t a good role model for a boy struggling through puberty, but Bruce had cut back greatly his excesses upon taking a child into his home. No woman ever spent the night at the manor after Dick had moved in. Bruce had taken care to ensure Dick understood that the parties and headlines were merely a pretense to throw off suspicion and further separate Bruce Wayne from The Batman.

While it was true that Bruce would occasionally find solace in the arms of a beautiful woman, he was diligent when it came to protection. Any woman he spent time with could determine to net herself a billionaire husband by becoming pregnant, so he took precautions to ensure it would never happen.

He had warned Dick that unscrupulous women might attempt to prey on him in an effort to acquire Bruce’s money. By the same token, he made sure Dick understood his responsibility to protect his partner from the possible consequences of their actions. However, outside of those warnings and an awkward half hour he had given to ‘ _The Talk_ ,’ Bruce chose not to intrude into that part of Dick’s life. The boy had been responsible and conscientious far beyond his years. Bruce had been certain Dick wouldn’t be careless, not when the results of his actions could have far-reaching consequences affecting lives beyond his own.

God only knew Bruce wanted to give Dick the benefit of the doubt. There could be another explanation for this . . . _God, let the be another explanation for this_.

Batman gripped the steering wheel hard enough to leave fingerprints. _A child_? _What the hell was Dick thinking_? There was no room in a vigilante’s life for a child – Aaand now he was parroting Alfred.

“Ah, Dick, why didn’t you tell me?” He slammed a fist into the steering wheel.

He knew exactly why Dick didn’t tell him, damn it. It wasn’t as if Bruce had been forthcoming lately and, after this latest fiasco, why would he expect Dick to come to him with this news when he obviously didn’t feel he could trust Bruce for support. Had this been the real reason that Dick had come to him after months of separation? And then, instead of welcoming Dick back, Bruce had yelled at him, hit him, ran him off . . . _Forever_? God, he hoped not.

He shoved that painful memory out of his mind. None of that explained this current situation. Bruce knew Dick wasn’t irresponsible. He’d never leave a baby alone, unattended, in an apartment.

 _Although, it appeared he_ had _been irresponsible at some point, hadn’t he_? Batman thought grimly. _Q_ _uestions remained, where was the mother_? _Why had she abandoned the child? Was Dick even the father_? He had dozens of questions and no answers.

Whatever the case, Dick wasn’t prepared for fatherhood, particularly when he was practically homeless himself. _Practically_ . . . Alfred said he had found a place to live in Bludhaven. Batman shook his head.

 _Bludhaven!_ _Whatever possessed Dick to come here_? At least, in Gotham, Bruce or Alfred could have kept an eye on him, been there for him if something happened and he needed help.

Attempting to reason this out, Bruce blew out his breath slowly, a controlled, extended release of the air in his lungs through his nose. _Dick would never have stayed in Gotham City after this last fight, but why not go back to Metropolis_? _Clark could have watched out for him there_ , _and if_ _Dick had needed anything, Clark would have been able to contact him_ . . .

“No,” he corrected himself. “Dick wouldn’t have gone back to Metropolis because he knows that Clark talks to me.”

But Bludhaven had corruption woven throughout its fibers from the lowest criminal to the highest officials. The dregs of society congregated there because the vast majority of cops were on the mob bosses’ payrolls.

 _Which is probably why Dick had chosen it_ \- _Bludhaven had needed a hero_.

Batman snorted. Bludhaven needed a dozen heroes and even then, there was no guarantee that the state of the city could be reversed. What could one person do to make a dent in that muck? Even Batman avoided the city, allowing it to wallow in its own filth so long as crimes weren’t causally linked to Gotham.

The GPS reminded him that he was within a few blocks of his destination. Pulling into an alley, his headlamps illuminated a drug deal in progress. He shook his head. One didn’t even have to be looking for trouble to find it. The dumpster nearby was overflowing with trash. The rats scurried about, unafraid in the presence of humans that were slinking around in their vicinity.

Pushing the control for the roof, Batman stood up. The two men, the dealer and addict, froze, gaping at him in shock, obviously had thought themselves safe here. _Surely, they know who I am_. He narrowed his eyes. It was true Batman seldom stepped out of Gotham. If he did, it was assisting the Justice League, not harassing drug dealers in Bludhaven.

“Boo,” he growled in his most dangerous voice.

Jumping at the sound of his voice, the two men ran, choosing to scale the chain-link fence at the back of the alley than pass by him. Batman didn’t pursue. They weren’t the reason that he was here, but he needed the privacy.

Pulling clothes from the trunk, Batman was transformed a few moments later into his civilian identity. Of course, in this neighborhood, Bruce Wayne was just as out of place as Batman. Shrugging into the navy-blue, wool pea coat, he double checked the address and the time – 2:44 am. He had sixteen minutes to walk three blocks and get to apartment ‘5-B’. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Bruce locked the car and activated the security system.

The buildings looked rundown in this area with architecture from what he thought was the 1930s, so the likelihood of finding a working elevator was slim. Bruce adjusted his time to include climbing the stairs to the fifth floor. He started off at a jog as running flat out would draw too much attention should there be anyone up at this hour. The freezing temperature worked well as an excuse to rush. His breath formed puffs of condensation in the cold March weather. The Batsuit was insulated against the cold and with the addition of his clothes and the pea coat, he was warm enough.

The child had been alone for nearly to two hours. Anything could have happened during the time it had taken to get here, but maybe Dick had returned in that time as well. He hoped so. Bruce wanted to talk to him. He didn’t want to leave things like they were. If his suspicions were correct and the child was Dick’s, there was no place for anger between them anymore.

* * *

He was only a block away when three men stepped out of the doorway up ahead, moving onto the sidewalk in order to intercept him. Although far from his best, Bruce figured his clothing bespoke of person of some means. Certainly, they cost more than any of these cretins might afford which meant he was fair game.

Bruce checked his watch: 2:48 am. He had twelve minutes left to get to Dick’s apartment before the landlord called the police. He hadn’t enough time to get mugged, but more than enough time to deal with his new friends. It was dark here as several streetlights were broken, most likely on purpose to prevent victims from being able to make positive IDs on their assailants. Unfortunately, it was about to backfire on them. Confident that none of the men would recognize him as Bruce Wayne here in one of the poorer sections of Bludhaven, he did not even bother to slow down.

In fact, he sped up.

He was almost upon them before they realized he wasn’t going to stop. Bruce leapt up into the air slamming his left foot into the first guy’s chest and knocking him off of his feet. Using a move he had taken from Dick, Bruce kicked off from the man, twisting in midair, his boot connecting with the neighboring man’s head. By purposely landing with his back to the third mugger, he was encouraging his assailant to rush him.

When he came down, Bruce pivoted on his foot and the final mugger stumbled past him. Planting his boot in the man’s ass, he sent the thug head-first into a parked car. He slumped to the concrete, joining his buddies in unconsciousness. It was doubtful if the owner of the car would notice the extra dent.

Bruce checked his watch again: 2:51 am.

Dick’s building was at the end of the block. The door to the lobby was opened for him by a short Hispanic man wearing a feminine blue bathrobe that barely covered the essentials and matching high-heeled slippers. His hair was cut in an asymmetrical style, short on the right with a long, bang that swept over his left eye.

“Are you the daddy, sugar? Cuz you look like you’d be a daddy to me?” The man’s New York accent was punctuated with a lisp.

Raising an eyebrow, Bruce looked at him doubtfully. “Are you . . . Horowitz?”

“Nah, I’m Hector,” he laughed flirtatiously, smiling as his eyes roamed appreciatively, Hector tucked a long piece of hair neatly behind one ear, straightening the pastel-blue robe. “I live on the floor below your boy. I told Stephan . . . That’s Mr. Horowitz, the super, that I would wait for you cuz, honey, ain’t _nobody_ getting any sleep tonight.”

Ignoring him, Bruce started for the stairs. He had five minutes to spare and he wanted nothing more than to find Dick and this child as quickly as possible.

“Mm-mm, good genes must run in the family,” Hector murmured from his position directly behind Bruce. His slippers clattering on the steps as he struggled to keep up.

Stopping dead in his tracks, he glared angrily at the man. Hector jerked his eyes up to Bruce’s face, smiling guiltily. Bruce put the man’s age around thirty, at least eleven years Dick’s senior.

“And you know my _son_ **_how_**?” He allowed his voice to drop an octave, taking on a growl more common to Batman than that of Bruce Wayne.

“Oh my,” Hector gasped, startled, his eyes widening. He stumbled in his heels as he clutched the railing in alarm. Flustered, Hector clasped the neck of his robe. “I-I only met him on the stairs once or twice. I swear.”

“Should you ever meet him again, you _will_ keep your eyes to yourself,” Bruce warned him.

“I would _never_ . . .”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“Alright, maybe I would, but looking ain’t never hurt nobodies,” Hector smirked, allowing the edge of his robe to fall off on shoulder.

He grabbed a fist-full of Hector’s robe and yanked him up the stairs, shoving the other man in front of him. The better to keep Hector’s eyes and thoughts on climbing the stairs. He gave him a push to get him started.

Hector tripped but didn’t fall. He began hurrying up the stairs.

“Oh, so masculine . . . Be still my beating heart,” he panted softly.

Not softly enough. “Move,” Bruce commanded.

“I’m going! I’m going,” Hector squealed, scrambling up the steps just a little faster.

As they reached the fourth floor, Hector turned toward the next set of steps to continue on. Bruce halted him by yanking the back of man’s robe.

“I believe this is your stop. I can find my way from here, thank you.”

As Bruce moved past him, Hector smiled again. He waited until Bruce had rounded the landing and was no longer in sight before murmuring to himself. “Mm, I bet he could crack a walnut in that tight . . .”

“I can hear you, Hector,” Bruce snapped from his position.

“Goodbye, my prince. Farewell.” Hector whispered, blowing a kiss, and waving his fingers at the now empty stairwell.

“I. Still. Hear. You.” Bruce’s growl rolled down stairwell from the floor above.

* * *

Several people in various stages of dress and age were awaiting him at the top of the stairs, three men and two women. A man of middling years stepped forward. He was balding but attempted to hide that fact by combing long, thinning strands over his shiny scalp.

“You must be Mr. Wayne. Your son is either not home or he’s not answering the door.” he complained.

“Horowitz?”

“That’s right. So, what are you going to do about it?” Horowitz asked, waving at the door in question.

The apartment they were all huddled around was 5-B, the same number Alfred had provided him. “I was told there was a child?”

The elder woman nodded vigorously while the younger woman wrung her hands in a nervous fashion. “Yes! Oh yes, indeed,” the older woman said, “There is definitely a child.”

“I don’t hear anyone crying,” he noted. Alfred had relayed Horowitz’s rant quite thoroughly.

The younger woman introduced herself. “I’m Livie and this is my husband, Marty. We live next door to your son. That is Frank and Doris; they live on the other side,” she said quickly. “There was a child crying inside your son’s apartment since around one am. We knocked on the door, but no one answered. Anyway, the child stopped crying about ten minutes ago. We were on the verge of calling 911.”

Doris nodded again, her hand clinging to her husband’s arm. “We think the baby might have fallen asleep, but after crying for so long and hard, the silence began to worry us.”

Marty ran a hand through his hair irritatedly. “Look, if you’re planning on busting the door down, can you do it already? I gotta get up for my shift in two hours.” With this, Marty returned to his apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Horowitz panicked at the idea. “I was hoping Grayson might have given you the key to the deadbolt. If we can avoid breaking the door, I’d appreciate it. Otherwise, I’ll have to add the cost of replacing it to your son’s rent. He already owes me long-distance charges for the phone call.”

“I apologize in my son’s stead for disrupting your rest,” Bruce told them all. “Although I will tell you now that I was not aware of any child in my son’s life.”

Horowitz shook his head. “That’s what he told me when he signed the lease. He said he didn’t have no girlfriend and no kids, but we all agree that the crying we heard was definitely a kid. I told that Alfred Pennyworth fella that your son knew right up front there are no kids allowed in here.”

Bruce could see the deadbolt was new. It made sense Dick would do this to prevent his landlord from entering unexpectedly and finding evidence of his secret life.

“Anyway,” Horowitz continued, “my key only works on the door lock, not the deadbolt. He never said he planned on adding another lock. I have half a mind to charge him for that.”

“Don’t know when the child could have arrived. Nobody here saw anyone coming or going from the apartment except your boy this entire week. But we thank you for coming and helping us sort this out,” Frank muttered. “The women were getting a trifle upset, you understand.”

“Of course,” Bruce murmured. “If I may . . .?” he asked Horowitz who stood between him and the door.

“Please, by all means,” Horowitz stepped out of his way but didn’t leave.

The residents, too, remained to see what Bruce would do. Apparently, they were invested enough now to want to stick it out. No one seemed to recognize him, at least.

Although Bruce carried his lockpicks with him, he was reluctant to pull them out in front of his audience. At the risk of upsetting the child, Bruce knocked on the door first, hoping Dick might open up for a familiar voice. Then again, with their relationship now estranged, Bruce might be the last person Dick would respond to.

“Dick? Dick, can you hear me? It’s Bruce; Can you open the door?” Bruce called out, speaking loudly to be heard. “Dick, I need you to open the door for me now.”

Pressing his ear against the door, Bruce listened. The wood was thick, however, making whatever sounds he heard muffled. He thought he could hear movement. _Someone_ was in there. Even with their falling out, Bruce knew that if Dick were in there and capable of opening the door, he would.

Only he didn’t.

Bruce knocked again. “Richard! You will open this door immediately. Do you hear me, young man?” he asked sternly this time.

 _Could it be that Dick is injured_? he wondered. Then he heard it. Someone was weeping. It _did_ sound like a child. Taking a different approach, Bruce tried speaking to the child.

“Hello? Can you hear me? Please, don’t cry. You’re safe,” he crooned through the door. It had been many years that he had needed to use this tone of voice, only when Dick had been younger, and usually when he had been sick or injured, or the dreams had been especially bad during the night.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated. “It’s okay. You can come to the door and speak to me. Can you say something? Can you say hello?”

There were far too many times that Batman had found it necessary to coax a traumatized young child from a hiding spot. It wasn’t easy to gain a child’s trust while wearing a giant bat suit, but it was a skill that he had carefully cultivated. He remembered all too well being traumatized himself once upon a time.

Finally, he heard movement on the other side of the door.

“Hello? Are you there?” he asked gently.

“H-Hel-lo?” a little voice hiccupped.

 _Dear God,_ _it **is** a child!_

“Hello. My name’s Bruce. What’s yours?” He needed to build some trust.

Sniffling . . . A whine. “Don’t kno-o-ow,” he sobbed. “I scared.”

Bruce frowned. _What had happened that the child can’t remember his own name? And w_ _here the hell is Dick in all this_?

“Do you know where Dick is?”

Bruce couldn’t imagine his nineteen-year-old son with a child old enough to talk. When would this have occurred? Dick had been burning the candle at both ends too often to have developed a serious romantic relationship.

“Who-o Di-ck?” The hiccups were back.

Bruce frowned. The mystery was no closer to being solved by speaking to the . . . boy? He thought that the child was a boy. It was hard to tell as children’s voices sounded alike when they’re young.

“Are you in there alone?” Bruce asked.

He could feel the eyes of Dick’s neighbors on him. Bruce knew that the young man he raised would never be so irresponsible as to leave a young child alone in a strange place. There could be another reason - one that required a mask. Bruce’s anger at Dick’s reckless behavior was warring with a growing concern.

“Don’t know.”

“Maybe someone is sleeping?” Bruce began to consider the possibility that Dick could be lying unconscious – _or dead_.

“No,” came the answer.

“How old are you?” Bruce asked next, hoping the child was old enough to follow direction.

“I d-don’t kno-o-ow.” He was getting upset again.

Livie interrupted this strange interrogation. “He doesn’t know his name or his age? How can he not at least know his name?”

If the child had been injured or traumatized, he might not remember either, but that only made Dick’s desertion appear all the worse. Bruce ignored her questions. Things were looking bad enough as it was.

“Shh . . . Calm down,” Bruce crooned. “It’s okay. We can figure that out later, but I need you to do me a favor first. Can you help me?”

 _Sniffle_ . . . “M’kay.”

“Can you unlock the door for me?” Bruce asked him.

The doorknob jiggled slightly.

“Can’t reach . . . Uh, I feel bad,” the little voice groaned.

“Do you feel sick?” Bruce wondered if the child needed medical care.

“Feel bad . . . and sticky.”

 _Sticky_? “Sticky, how?”

“I have boo-boos,” he whined.

 _Shit_ . . . He needed to get in there. Had he known this earlier, Bruce wouldn’t have wasted time interrogating the child, but neither could he risk kicking the door down. Should the superintendent and neighbors follow him in only to discover Dick unconscious, possibly dressed as a vigilante . . . Although the boy said he was alone, he also sounded confused.

“Hang on, chum. I’m coming to get you,” Bruce promised through the door. Spinning around to face his audience, he told the others. “I’m going to climb the fire escape and enter through a window,” he announced.

“You’re not going to break it, are you?” Horowitz asked worriedly.

Bruce frowned at him. “No. The building’s old. Unless they’re painted shut, windows in a place like this can easily be jimmied for the outside.”

Frank looked at his superintendent in alarm. “What? Is that true, Horowitz? Could someone get into our apartments and murder us in our beds because you’re too damned cheap to buy new windows?”

“Windows are expensive! Do you know how many windows there are in this building?” Horowitz blurted defensively.

Their voices retreated as Bruce ran down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time until he was out of sight. After that, he cut time, by jumping the banisters and skipping the landings altogether. At this point, he didn’t care how much noise he made. There was a child in his son’s apartment that he suspected was sick or injured. While there was a worry that Dick’s vigilante activities would be discovered, that bastard, Horowitz, showed more concern over the building than for its inhabitants.

* * *

Bruce shoved his way back outside into the cold March chill, not that it was much warmer inside the hallways. _Had this been where Dick was living all this time_? _. . . No_. _Hector and Dick’s neighbors said he had only moved in a week ago_.

The question of where his son had been sleeping before this was swept aside for more immediate concerns as Bruce reached the side of the building. Using the dumpster to boost himself high enough, he leapt up to reach the bottom rung of the ladder he needed to access the fire escape. From there, Bruce was able to take the steps up two and three at a time, reaching what would be the window to Dick’s fifth story apartment.

Pulling out a credit card, Bruce discovered it wasn’t needed. The window was unlocked. Bruce slid it open now, stepping carefully into a bedroom. A bare mattress with a tattered blanket sat in the middle of the room with Dick’s escrima sticks scattered on the floor next to his gloves. He recognized the lump of black on the floor of the open bathroom as part of his son’s new uniform. Dark stains scattered a trail from the window into the bathroom and from there, he could see tiny footprints crossing through the wet.

 _Blood . . . but whose_?

If Dick left his apartment, he did so as a civilian. The mess he left behind spoke clearly that his son hadn’t been himself. This was a rule that was never crossed unless you were physically incapable of cleaning up after yourself - Never leave your gear out.

 _So, why have you done so now_?

Inside, Bruce could now hear the sniffle and whimper easily.

“Hello? I’m here,” he announced. “It’s Bruce. You talked with me through the door?”

He paused to pick up the escrima sticks, noticing immediately the modifications that had been made to it. It held prongs on one end as a means of conducting electricity.

 _Dick turned his fighting sticks into stun guns_. Bruce was impressed. Curiosity flitted through his mind over what other improvements Dick had made during his absence. He moved to place them out of sight in the closet but hesitated when they clanked against something dark and metallic. Unwilling to be distracted, he tossed the gloves in next, but noticed a reddish-brown stain left smudged on his fingers.

 _More blood_ . . .

Inside the bathroom, Bruce saw the black lump did indeed belong to Dick’s new costume and found the blue and black top dumped into the bathtub. A trail of blood trickled down the drain. There was more of the same on the floor, puddling and, beside it, were two handprints – one large, one small. This, too, was where the bloodied footprints had originated. Dick had obviously fallen and lain here for some time but where had the child come from and why had Dick left him alone? No answers yet.

Picking up the uniform, Bruce turned from the scene, examining the pieces as he went. It included some light armor and . . . His fingers found the numerous tears, including one in the side, above Dick’s ribs that still held the stench of gunpowder and blood. Bruce decided that he would need to bag them. He couldn’t leave them or any of Nightwing’s gear behind.

The child hadn’t answered him yet. As frightened as boy had sounded, Bruce had expected him to have come running upon hearing his voice, but many children tended to hide when afraid.

Stepping into the main living space, he scanned the room. “Hello? Where are you?”

The boy wasn’t visible but there weren’t many places that he could hide in an apartment this empty. There was an old, green couch sitting in the middle of the floor that should have been gracing the dumpster rather than someone’s dwelling. A small, scratched-up table with two mismatched chairs sat near the opening to a miniscule kitchen bump-out. Bruce stopped to open several cabinets and even the refrigerator for the boy. No food to speak of, he noted, just old take-out. The milk expired today.

The money that Alfred admitted to giving Dick must have gone into this place and, he suspected, toward his night life. _Had the boy not left himself anything for food_? Bruce hadn’t expected Dick to feel this strongly about crime-fighting, that he would give everything he had to it, even to his own detriment.

Bruce decided that he would need to rethink his position on this. Dick’s dedication deserved his respect. What had Alfred said to him recently? Oh, yes, he remembered . . . ‘ _You haven’t cornered the market on crime-fighting, Master Bruce. The lad obviously has his own mission_.’

He turned back to the living area.

“You can come out now, chum. I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.”

He tracked the sounds of whimpering to a slender door Bruce suspected was used as a linen closet or pantry. He opened the door, scanning the empty shelves until he spotted a set of bare toes peeking out at the bottom. His heart clenched.

 _Poor kid_ . . . _He has to be terrified_.

Bruce got down on one knee, peering into the tiny space the boy had managed to wedge himself. He was wearing one of Dick’s undershirts, tucking his legs inside the oversized garment for warmth. The material was stiff with dried blood. He held his hand out to the child.

“Hello there. You said you were hurt. Can you come out and show me your boo-boos?” Bruce murmured softly. _He so tiny_. . . _No wonder he couldn’t reach the deadbolt_.

Slowly, little feet slid out from under the shirt to join the toes. Tiny hands held themselves out in invitation. Taking hold of the hands, Bruce helped the child to climb out of his hiding place. Shiny, black hair . . . a bit too long like his - like Dick’s, he corrected. No proof of anything yet.

Once the boy stood in front of him, Bruce estimated his age to be around three, maybe four, if he were small for his age. Tucking a finger under his chin to bring his head up, Bruce found himself staring into a pair of familiar cerulean-blue eyes.

 _Dick’s eyes_? The thought startled him. _No! Not possible_.

This would have made Dick sixteen, maybe even as young as fifteen when this child was born! Dick did not even begin dating until he was sixteen years old, when girls had become at least as important to him as being Robin. Dick had stated that he would rather take them out on his own without being driven around by the family butler – no offense to Alfred.

Bruce studied the face for a moment, searching out any clue as to the mother’s identity in his features but the toddler was an exact replica of his father - _of Dick._

 _Dear God, you should have told me_. _Why didn’t you tell me_?

Bruce shook his head. He thought if Dick had known of the child before now, he wouldn’t have let pride get into the way of doing what was right for the boy. Perhaps he was worried about the potential fallout of such a confession, but while Bruce might have been upset and disappointed initially, he wouldn’t have remained angry. He would never have blamed the child for the accident of his birth.

The shock wearing off, Bruce felt a wave of emotions bombarding him on all sides, guilt being the greatest of these. This was his fault. He had failed to impart the correct amount of stress on the need to be careful, to protect himself and the young woman he had been with. If he hadn’t been so busy, he might have paid more attention to Dick’s life beyond the mission. He should have . . .

He frowned. The child’s face was bruised.

A cut beneath the child’s left eye left his cheek smeared with blood. That had been close. He might have lost the eye had he been struck a mere inch higher. Alarmed by evidence of abuse, Bruce tugged at the neck of the shirt, gaping in horror at the mottled bruising of a recent beating.

“Who hurt you?” He growled. It came out more harshly than he’d intended and regretted it when the child pulled away from him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Bruce breathed in and out, slowly. The boy was clearly traumatized but his relationship to Dick meant that a hospital was out of the question. Not until Bruce had discovered the answers to this puzzle and found his son . . .

“I messy,” he complained, crinkling his nose. “Sticky.” He plucked at the shirt, tears still swimming in those blue, blue eyes. His resemblance to Dick was uncanny.

“We’ll get you cleaned up. Don’t worry,” Bruce soothed. Tugging the shirt off allowed him to better assess the child’s condition.

He was naked beneath the undershirt. The bruising and scratches lined the left side of the boy’s body. A deep gouge had been cut along his ribs which explained the blood but, thankfully, it was clotting on its own. Bruce found traces of scrapes along one side from shoulder to hip. Dirt - _And were those tiny pieces of gravel_? - still remained embedded in the scrapes that needed desperately to be cleaned. It looked like the boy had skidded along a rough surface. _Asphalt, maybe_?

 _Dear God_! _What had happened to him_? He needed to get him home to Alfred and call Leslie. They would be able to determine the child’s injuries better than he could. Leading him into the bedroom, Bruce looked, but couldn’t find any clothing that would fit the boy. _Where are the clothes he'd been wearing when he was brought here_?

In the bedroom, he pulled out one of Dick’s clean undershirts for the boy to wear, dropping it over the child’s head. There wasn’t much else he could do here. Setting the boy on the mattress, Bruce wrapped him up in the ratty blanket.

“Warmer?” he asked the child, tapping him on his nose.

The boy nodded, giggling. Bruce’s heart melted. Although the mystery of what happened to Dick remained, right now, Bruce would do his best to take care of Dick’s son.

“Who’re you?”

“My name is Bruce. Remember? I spoke to you through the door. I don’t suppose you remember your name yet?”

“Huh uh.” Shaking his head, the boy’s face crumpled. “I don’t know.”

“Sh, it’s okay. We’ll figure things out. I know a way we can find out who you are, but we need to go for a ride in my car first,” Bruce reassured him. “Now, I need to gather a few things before we can go,” Bruce explained as he moved around the room, picking up all the remnants of Dick’s night life and shoving them into a duffel he had found in the closet. “Do you like cars? I have a big, black one that makes growly noises when it runs.”

“Car g-growls?” the boy asked, becoming bolder. His curiosity was beginning to outweigh his fear.

“Like a giant bat,” Bruce said, grinning over his shoulder.

“Bat growls?” The blue eyes widened in awe.

“My bats do,” Bruce teased with a wink.

“It a mean bat?”

“Never to nice, little boys like you,” Bruce reassured him. “The car only growls at bad people.”

Bruce wasn’t sure what other equipment Dick had, but if he didn’t find it yet, it was probably hidden well enough. He hadn’t the time to search for it. He would take what he could find and use it to determine what might have happened to his son. He pulled a metal box out of the closet, but it was too bulky to fit in the duffle. He would leave it behind for now, pushing the box back in and shutting the door.

He paused only to clean up the blood on the floor and bathtub, tossing the towels in a garbage bag and stuffed them into the duffle atop Dick’s uniform. The towels would be thrown away after he collected samples from them. As Bruce looked around the two rooms for any other clues he might have missed or other incriminating evidence he didn’t want the landlord to discover after they were gone, he found Dick’s key to the deadbolt.

This meant he would have left via the window. Worry continued to eat away at the anger that he had been feeling toward his son over this situation. Dick had a lot to answer for, not least was for creating this dangerous and highly untenable situation. What if Horowitz had called the police? What if the child had gotten hurt - more so than he already was?

Eyeing the door to the hallway, he knew that the superintendent was waiting. If he didn’t address the man, Horowitz might decide paying for a new door would be worth it to discover what was going on in the apartment.

He sighed. There was no help for it.

“I’ll come back later,” Bruce murmured as he picked the child up in his arms. He tossed the duffle over his shoulder. “But for now, chum, you get to go for a ride. Is that okay with you?”

Wide blue eyes met his as the child nodded his head in reply.

 _He trusts me_ , Bruce realized. Gratefulness flooded his heart. It was crazy but he felt a bond forming with this child already.

Opening the door, Bruce found Horowitz and all three of the neighbors still present, waiting for him to appear. He stood in the doorway, neither stepping out nor allowing anyone inside. Shifting the child onto his hip, Bruce confronted them as there was no way to hide the fact there was a child. They had all heard him.

“My grandson,” he said, introducing the boy as family. There would be no questions behind him taking the boy with him.

Doris cooed at the child. “Aren’t you adorable?”

As the four people caught a glimpse of the bruises, Bruce addressed the issue. “I do not know the story behind this as my son is not present. I’ve found evidence that he had been injured as well, however, making me think the two might have been attacked at some point.”

Frank shook his head. “This neighborhood was once a nice place to live.”

“Did he leave a note as to where he went?” Livie asked, worry evident on her face.

At this point, I can only assume that he was suffering from some confusion due to this for him to have left the boy behind. Should he return before I can locate him, please contact me right away.” He met Horowitz’ gaze. “You can use the number Dick left with you.”

“The child . . .?” Horowitz asked hesitantly.

“Left here by his mother,” Bruce improvised. “Does Dick owe you for anything?”

Taking a breath, Horowitz drew himself up. “He’s paid up for three more weeks.”

Bruce nodded. “Very well. Someone will be by before then.”

“He has a lease, you know,” Horowitz began.

There was a gleam in the superintendent’s eyes as Bruce set down the duffel and reached for his wallet.

Livie reached for the boy. “Here, let me hold him for you,” she said, plucking him out of Bruce’s arms. She and Doris made faces at him, beaming when he giggled shyly.

“How much?”

“Eight hundred a month,” he snapped out.

“Oh no! That can’t be right, Stephan,” Doris blurted. “Frank and I have a two bedroom and our rent is only five hundred and fifty dollars.”

Although her attention remained on the boy she bounded on her hip, Livie was nodding. “Marty and I have a one bedroom, too, but our rent is four hundred. You can get a studio for less, but I think all those have been rented.”

“What are you trying to pull, Horowitz?” Frank frowned at the man.

The superintendent started sweating despite the cold temperatures in the hallway. “I-I . . . You all just don’t pay attention. Been fixing up the apartments that have been vacant. That costs money.”

Bruce peeled several bills out of his wallet, handing them to Horowitz. “That is eight hundred dollars. Dick is now paid up for three months.”

“But there was the child,” Horowitz complained. “He broke the rules. No children allowed.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bruce picked up the duffel and took the boy back. “Very well, then. I’ll be contacting my attorney on Monday.”

“You- You’re suing?” the superintendent gaped. “But the lease? We have rules here. No children . . .”

“Allowed,” Bruce finished for him. “So, you’ve said. My attorney will be brokering my purchase of this building. _Then_ we can continue this discussion about the rules.”

Livie gaped at him. “You can do that? Just up and buy the building? Wait! You said your name was Wayne? As in Bruce Wayne, the billionaire from Gotham City.”

For once, Horowitz was speechless, but Frank had no problem voicing his concerns. “You’re not going to raise the rent, are you? Our apartment is rent-controlled.”

“How is it the son of a billionaire is living in a dung heap place like this?” Livie inserted.

Horowitz frowned at her. “Hey! That’s harsh.” He turned back to Bruce. “I’ve worked within my means, you understand. I’m too old to find another job.”

“Rent?” Frank reminded him.

“Be nice, Frank,” Doris warned gently. “Mr. Wayne has more important things on his mind, like getting his sweet grandbaby home and cleaned up.” She took the child from Livie and handed him back to Bruce.

“We’re important, too,” her husband grumbled.

“No, I won’t raise rent, but I will be replacing the windows and updating the heating system. The public areas entirely too cold. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Doris is correct. It’s time to take the little one home.” Bruce tucked the edges of the blanket around the boy securely. “There you go. Snug as a bug in a rug,” he teased.

“Bug,” The boy repeated enthusiastically before going silent. Tilting his head, he asked worriedly, “Bat eat bug?”

“Not _my_ bat,” he assured the child softly, “and not _this_ bug.” Bruce chucked the boy under his chin playfully with a finger, smiling when toddler tucked his face into his shoulder, giggling.

The adults, even Horowitz, waved goodbye to the boy when he peeked back at them, forgetting their previous upset.

“Do you need someone to walk you to your car,” Frank offered generously. “It would only take a minute to grab my coat . . .”

“If you still have a car in this neighborhood,” Livie muttered.

“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary. My car has its own security system,” Bruce assured them as he started down the stairs. Dealing with Dick’s nosy neighbors had only taken a few minutes, but Bruce was anxious to get the boy home. “I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

“Let’s go for a ride,” he told the boy as they exited the building. The boy shivered in the cold air, tucking his face into Bruce’s neck for extra warmth. Taking a moment, he tugged the blanket over tiny exposed toes.

The three would-be muggers had cleared out at some point. Thankfully, no one else was out as they headed to the alley where he had left the Batmobile. He wished he could have called the car to them, but he didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the two of them entering it. The fact that he had run into five people between the alley and Dick’s building on his way here proved it was a real concern.

They heard the voices before he saw them. Bruce held a finger over the child’s lips to keep him quiet as he stopped before turning the corner into the alley.

“I told you he was here, didn’t I?” the first voice said excitedly.

The second voice sounded confused. “Why would Batman come to the ‘Haven?”

“How should I know? But that’s his ride, man,” the first voice argued.

“Think it has something to do with that new guy running around in the mask?”

“Hey! I didn’t think of that. Could be . . .”

It was too dangerous and cold to wait until the men left. Who knew how long they’d chat it up before moving on, or if they’d try to test the car’s security system and shock themselves into oblivion? As with everything about this night so far, that would be just too damned convenient.

Reaching into his pocket, Bruce started the car remotely, revving the motor in a threatening manner. It wasn’t just the child in his arms who jumped at the roar of the engine.

“Holy shit! You mean to tell me he’s been in there this whole time?” the second voice yelped. “What are you trying to do, man?”

“Let’s get out of here!”

Sounds of stumbling and crashing were followed by the rattling of the chain link fence at the back of the alley.

After waiting a moment in silence, Bruce whispered to his companion. “Ready?”

The boy nodded, peeking up at him with wide eyes. “Bat growling? It eat me?”

“No, chum. It’s safe,” he said, disarming the security system and opening the passenger-side door. “It’s going to give us a ride home.”

He hesitated. The car wasn’t child-friendly; it had no car seat for the trip back. It had a netted safety harness for transporting dangerous or unconscious passengers, but this wouldn’t work for a child.

Decision made; Bruce settled into the passenger seat with the boy in his arms. It wasn’t ideal but he hadn’t planned on a situation like this. The car could navigate the return trip remotely, a feature designed to get him home in the event of a serious injury and possible loss of consciousness.

He was turning on the heat when a thought occurred to him. Pulling the blanket off the boy’s head, he peered down at him.

“I didn’t think to ask earlier, but . . . Do you need to go to the bathroom?” In the middle of the night with no diapers handy, he prayed the boy was potty-trained.

“Huh-uh,” the boy answered in the negative – much to Bruce’s relief.

“Right. Okay then.” Lowering his voice out of habit, he spoke to the car. “Home.”

“My home?” the child asked suddenly, craning his head to look up at him.

“It is now, chum,” Bruce assured him with a smile. “It is now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REACTIONS?? I would love to hear your thoughts and reactions to this chapter.
> 
> Here we are getting a glimpse of Batman and Nightwing's argument from Bruce's perspective . . .


	6. Impossibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trying to determine who the child is that Bruce discovered in Dick's apartment, certain impossibilities become increasingly more probable as the evidence begins to pile up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Language . . .

Bruce climbed out of the car with the sleeping child. The boy had been a bundle of energy at the beginning of the trip back, asking question after question about the car. Fascinated with all the buttons, switches, and levers, he wanted to touch them all. Bruce had been kept on his toes, preventing the boy from shooting off a net or releasing tire puncturing caltrops on the road behind them. Curiosity satisfied for the moment, the child eventually succumbed to the warmth and safety of Bruce’s embrace and drifted off to sleep.

Although he had searched, Bruce couldn’t locate any other head wound except for some bruising along his temple and cheekbone. While the injury hardly looked serious, something was behind the child’s memory loss and, truth be told, one could never tell with a visual inspection alone if a head injury was superficial or potentially life altering.

Alfred met him as they neared the medical bay. Despite the phone call earlier, the butler appeared surprised to see the child-sized bundle in Bruce’s arms. The blanket was lying over part of the boy’s face.

“My word, so that fellow was telling the truth about there being a child.” Alfred spoke quietly, holding out his arms out. He paused when he detected the odor. “Oh dear.”

“Indeed, the fellow was. By the way, we had a bit of an accident on the way home.” Bruce explained, moving past the butler. “Since we’re both wet, I’ll carry him in for you.”

“So, the child is a boy, then.” Alfred raised an eyebrow. The bundled child was small, perhaps, but certainly was not an infant. “He is not toilet-trained yet, I take it?”

Bruce shook his head. “No, he is. He knew when he had to go but couldn’t hold it long enough for us to pull off the road and get out of the car.”

“What is his name? Could he tell you his age and where he came from? The name of his mother, perhaps?”

“By his height and weight, I’m guessing he is around three years of age, but his speech isn’t well developed. He wasn’t able to tell me his age or his name, nor anything about his life apparently before I arrived. There is some bruising along his temple, not severe, but there could be other traumas that lie behind the boy’s faulty memory. I found other injuries, including a gash along his side that I find disturbingly similar to a bullet graze, but nothing else that might explain this inconsistency except for repression.”

“Oh dear. The poor lamb. I will, of course, check for a concussion at once.” Alfred assured him. Glancing in the direction of the changing room, he added, “You should take the opportunity to shower and change while I tend to the boy. Are those his clothes in the duffel bag?”

“No. I couldn’t find anything belonging to the child in Dick’s apartment,” Bruce told him. He indicated the duffel bag. “That is full of Dick’s gear along with some bloody towels that will need to be discarded.”

Alfred frowned. “Was there was no sign of Master Dick?” Alfred frowned. “Do you not find that worrisome?”

“Of course, I do,” Bruce retorted. “The towels and blood I found in the apartment all confirm that Dick received his share of injuries, but he wasn’t in the apartment and he left no clues as to his destination.”

“I had no choice, however. The child had to take priority,” he said, lying the bundle on the examination table. “He needed medical care and I couldn’t risk dragging him around Bludhaven when I had no idea where Dick might have gone. I will go back out after you tend to the boy to search for Dick.”

“Quite right,” Alfred agreed. Master Dick, even injured, could care for himself and would certainly want Bruce to look after the child first. “Would you like for me to bring up Bludhaven’s police reports for you?”

“I can do that. You concentrate of the boy. Oh, and you should prepare yourself,” Bruce told him as he sat the boy on the gurney. Pulling the edge of the blanket away, he exposed the toddler’s face.

“Good heavens! Oh, my word . . .” Alfred stammered in shock.

Heaving a weary sigh, Bruce ran a hand through his hair. “I swear to God, Alfred, I don’t know whether to be furious with him or terrified for him,” Bruce lamented as he gazed down at a child that he strongly suspected was Dick’s own son. “Maybe I’m a bit of both.”

“There . . . There isn’t really any doubt when you look at him, sir. The resemblance is quite striking.”

“Just wait until he wakes up,” Bruce warned. “He has Dick’s eyes. The same shape, even the exact color.”

“I would have never guessed,” Alfred murmured. “Never in a million years. He never acted as if . . . Surely, we would have known. I mean, could he have hidden from us something of this magnitude?”

“I cannot believe Dick knew about him.” Bruce shook his head. “Not until recently at any rate. He never would have been able to hide something like this from me . . . from _either_ of us, had he known.”

Alfred had begun to unwrap the boy from his cocoon, carefully so as to not aggravate any of the child’s injuries. The dark circles under his eyes meant the boy had gone without sleep for an extended period of time and increased the older man’s concern as to what sort of experiences the child had been forced to endure. Currently, the child was sleeping deeply, his thumb in his mouth.

“I, too, would place him around three or four years of age,” the butler murmured softly. “You did remember that yesterday was Master Richard’s nineteenth birthday, did you not? This would have made him quite young when this lad was conceived.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Bruce frowned. “Dick would have had to have been at least fifteen . . .” He winced. “I hope not younger than that.”

Alfred shook his head. “Oh no, I find that hard to imagine, sir, knowing him as we do.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “It seems impossible, doesn’t it, old friend, despite the proof.”

Frowning, he could hardly believe his eyes. It was just so hard to accept. Maybe, too hard . . .

Alfred glanced up, curious. “What are you thinking?”

“Alfred, I’m going to need a fresh blood sample,” he stated.

The older man blinked. “A paternity test? I hardly think that would be necessary considering the resemblance.”

“ _If_ there _is_ a mother in all of this, the test might give me a clue to her identity. It could possibly answer a few other questions as well.”

“ _If_ there is a . . .? What do you . . . Ah!” Alfred nodded, catching up to his employer’s line of thought. “ _A clone?_ You suspect this child might be Master Richard’s clone. That would make far more sense than Richard being the lad’s father.”

Bruce found a smile. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t like imagining Dick being sexually active so young. He had begun to worry, on their way back to the Batcave, about Dick’s early exposures to Poison Ivy, and wondered whether her pollen might have contributed to this situation. It had been a concern that Alfred had pointed out to him after Robin had first been exposed to the aphrodisiac dust at the age of thirteen.

After that, Batman had kept the boy away from any case he thought she might be involved with, but there were those times that Robin had run into her in the field, when they had stumbled upon the crime already in progress and before either of them had reason to suspect Ivy’s connection.

Although Bruce hated to think Dick’s innocence might have been stolen from him, the memory of Ivy’s pollen was the reason why he couldn’t simply brush aside the possibility. But the DNA report should confirm or eliminate the unpalatable theory. He preferred to avoid hasty speculations unless he had physical evidence to support it.

Whining, the boy shivered in the cold damp air of the cave as Alfred tugged the last of the blanket free and dropped it onto the floor. Blinking groggily, he rubbed his bleary eyes as he frowned up at the new face. Bruce stepped into his line of sight in case the boy became frightened in this strange place.

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiled. “We made it home. This is Alfred,” Bruce introduced the butler. “He’s going to check and clean those boo-boos for you before we take you upstairs.”

The boy held up his arms in a silent demand. Bruce indulged him, picking him back up until he became more comfortable. From his new perch, he laid his head on the man’s shoulders as he put his thumb in his mouth. Feeling safe again, the child peeked at the older man shyly.

“Don’t be afraid of Alfred.” Bruce spoke in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “He’s my butler, and he takes great care of everyone living in my house.” Meeting Alfred’s gaze, he said, “What did I tell you?”

Alfred smiled warmly at the boy. It wasn’t hard considering how closely he resembled someone much loved by the two men. Indeed, the similarities between the child and Master Richard were remarkable.

“The resemblance is startling,” Alfred agreed. Speaking kindly to the boy, he continued. “I have taken care of Master Bruce practically since he was born. I’d quite like it if you allowed me to take care of you as well.”

After a moment, Bruce set him down, so that Alfred could begin the examination. As he did, the child popped his thumb out of his mouth.

“You be my butter, too?” he asked.

Unused to toddler speech, Alfred covered his mouth briefly to keep his amusement in check. Then he answered smoothly, “I would very much like to be your butter, ahem,” Alfred cleared his throat, “your _butler_ , young sir.”

When Bruce chuckled, Alfred sent him a look. “What? I’m the first to admit you’re a da- ahem, excuse me, a very fine ‘butter.’ Best in Gotham City.”

Alfred harrumphed. “Gotham City, indeed.”

“Best in the world, of course. How remiss of me.”

Rolling his eyes, Alfred winked at the boy and began his examination. Since the long gouge in the boy’s side had clotted, the older man started with the child’s head injury. He pulled out a lighted otoscope to look into the boy’s eyes to judge pupil reaction, searching for the first outward indication of a brain injury.

Concern over the child kept Bruce stationed next to the gurney, and the boy’s hand reached to grab two of Bruce’s fingers. It was a struggle for the child to hold still for the length of the examination.

“Well, Alfred? Anything?”

Alfred straightened. “I still have other tests to perform but as far as I can see he has no indication of a concussion. The bruising is light and there’s little swelling. If I must guess, I would say he struck his head on the floor as the result of a fall. But I am at a loss as to the origin of this black mark on his forehead. It isn’t bruising, but neither will it come off, even with alcohol.”

“A fall was my conclusion as well, but the child cannot remember anything, Alfred. If that is not from a physical trauma, then surely that indicates it is the result of an emotional one, does it not?” Bruce asked.

“What you are suggesting is called dissociative amnesia and it is extremely rare,” Alfred said. “You are suggesting that to protect himself from a psychological trauma, his brain has chosen to forget _everything_ in the short span of his life.”

“But is it possible?”

“Anything is possible, Master Bruce.”

“He has obviously been beaten. The gouge in his side, I suspect, came from a bullet. Something terrible happened to that boy, Alfred. That could be why he doesn’t remember anything before my arrival.”

“Yes, of course. He also has scarring, indicative of previous abuses, but the bruising he is sporting today doesn’t appear to be consistent with typical cases of child abuse. It is spread rather haphazardly in only one certain area, on only one side of the body,” Alfred observed. “He also bears several scratches similar to the one on his cheek that are closer to what you would find from an animal attack.”

“Animal?”

“Or fowl, perhaps,” Alfred theorized. As his fingers brushed over the wound on the boy’s side, the child flinched. “My apologies, young sir. I do not mean to cause you pain.”

Whimpering, he squeezed Bruce’s fingers.

“It’s okay, chum,” he soothed the boy. “Alfred didn’t mean to hurt you. He just helping me figure out what happened to you. You still don’t remember anything?”

“He is so young that any memory loss would appear devastating,” Alfred stated. “Can you remember anything at all before you woke up?” he asked the child.

Closing his eyes, the boy squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember. “Black. Flutterbee.”

Bruce frowned. “Flutterbee? What’s a flutterbee, chum? What does that mean?”

This only made the child upset. Face puckering up, he whined. “I don’t kno-o-ow. You mad?”

“Sh,” he hummed. “It’s alright. You’re safe now, and no, I’m not mad. I just don’t know what flutterbee means. You have any idea, Alfred?”

“At this point, sir, I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.” Alfred said, retrieving a tissue to wipe the boy’s nose for him.

“The gouge in his side, as you said, is likely from a bullet, though who would be vile enough to use a gun in the presence of a child? The rash with embedded material is a case of simple road rash. You can tell from the tiny bits of gravel and asphalt here.” Alfred tsked as he cleaned the wounds. “You’ve had a rough evening, child. It’s no wonder that you would choose to forget it.”

“Who would shoot a child?” Bruce growled, and although, he knew of several that were low enough to do just that, all were currently serving jail time or locked up in Arkham. “Could be a case of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d like a sample of the gravel and asphalt, Alfred. Let’s see if it gives me a clue as to the boy’s location.”

Pausing, Alfred handed Bruce a piece of gauze stained with the child’s blood as well as the other requested items. “For your test,” he said, turning back to his task. “You might go ahead and cleaned up yourself as you wait for the computer to analyze it. I think I have things in hand here.”

Bruce blinked at an odd thought that crossed his mind as Alfred catalogued the child’s injuries. He glanced at the duffel that contained Nightwing’s costume, before shaking his head. _No_ , he decided. That idea was too crazy to be given even a cursory consideration, and he dismissed it out of hand.

“Right. I’ll get started on this.” he said. Pulling his hand free, Bruce bent speak to the child. “I’ll be right back. I’m only going to change clothes and see what I can find about who you are. You’ll be safe with Alfred.”

“Don’t forget to bring up a couple of Jason’s shirts,” Alfred reminded him. “The boy’s going to need more than this sheet to keep him warm.”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll bring that up first before I hop in the shower. I want to start the analysis before I go.”

* * *

Once finished applying the bandage to the boy’s ribs, Alfred helped the child into one of Jason’s t-shirts and fastened another around his waist with safety pin as an impromptu diaper of sorts. Even so, the shirt hung on the toddler to his ankles. The normally short sleeves dangled at the young boy’s forearms. Alfred fiddled with the neck as it tended to slide off one shoulder every time the boy moved, but it would have to do. The important thing was that the child was warm and unlikely to trip and fall in this shirt as he must have done at least once in Master Richards’s.

It was possible that was how the boy had bruised his face, the butler thought to himself.

The Batcomputer pinged with an alert, catching his attention. Something big was happening somewhere. Picking the child up to carry with him, Alfred hesitated at the sight of Jason standing in the entryway. The older boy’s cheeks were rosy with sleep and his hair mussed.

“Master Jason! What are you doing out of bed so early?” Alfred asked. “It’s nearly five a.m.”

The fourteen-year-old scrubbed the sleep from his face with one arm. “Sorry, couldn’t sleep. Is Bruce back yet?”

Lifting an eyebrow at the remark, Alfred answered. “Indeed. He’s in the shower.”

‘Couldn’t sleep’ was Jason-speak for having a nightmare. They didn’t happen as often as when he first came to the manor but when they did, the youngster was generally up for the rest of the night. Alfred could only assume they must be quite terrible as Jason continued to refuse to talk about them.

“Who’s the kid?”

Instead of answering, Alfred handed the toddler off to the older boy. “Since you’re up, you might put yourself to good use,” Alfred told him. “Be careful with him, Jason. The child is sore and had quite the evening.”

Interestingly, the startled teen automatically settled the little boy comfortably on his hip. The gesture appeared second nature to a boy whom Bruce had said was an only child. It raised questions as to where Jason had picked up the habit.

“Kid’s a little young to be training as a Robin, don’t you think?” Jason blurted.

At Alfred’s reproachful glare, Jason shrugged a shoulder. “It was supposed to be a joke, Alf; sorry.”

“Hm,” the butler murmured as he walked past him. “Very well, then. I shan’t be too long. Master Bruce will be out to relieve you shortly.”

* * *

Alone, the two boys were staring at each other for a moment when Jason noticed what the toddler was wearing. He scowled, plucking at the material.

“Hey,” yelling after the older man’s retreating form. “Isn’t this my shirt? Why’s he wearing my shirt?” When he received no answer, Jay shot the child a warning look. “You better not have any accidents while wearing my shirt.”

The boy stared at him with unnerving intensity. Those vibrant blue eyes seemed to not miss anything. Jason wiped at his mouth with his wrist in case he had been drooling in his sleep, but the child continued to stare.

“What are _you_ looking at? I got something on my face?” Jason asked irritably.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Jason. Who are you?”

The boy’s little chin wobbled in response. “Don’t memor . . .”

“You don’t remember?” Jason’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline. “How the hell did you forget his own name?”

“I don’t the hell know,” the boy answered back.

Jason’s eyes widen at the child’s use of the expletive. There was no way that Alfred or Bruce wouldn’t know where the little twerp picked _that_ up.

“Sh! Don’t say that word! Alfred will get you for it,” he warned urgently. _More like Alfred would get **me**_ , he thought to himself.

Those big blue eyes grew larger. “Alfed eat me?” he asked worriedly.

“What? No. I didn’t mean that. I just . . . Ah, shit,” Jason stammered. He gasped immediately, his mouth dropping open in horror. _I shouldn’t have said that_.

“Ah, shit,” the little boy chirped happily. “Ah Shit, shit, shit.”

“Oh no. No, no, no.”

Jason hurried to set the boy down on the gurney. He gripped the child’s upper arms to keep him from trying to climb down, but in his panic, Jay didn’t notice the grimace the boy made in response.

“Shh! That’s not a good word! You don’t want to say that word,” he told the toddler.

The squirming boy stopped, tilting his head. “What not good word? No?”

“No . . . I mean the other word. You shouldn’t say the other word.”

The younger boy was confused. “The hell?”

“Ah cra -, yeah, that one, too, but I meant the _other_ one,” Jason told him seriously.

The child tilted his head the other way. “Other one?”

“You know the one I’m talking about,” Jason snapped, irritated. The little brat was playing dumb. “Don’t make me say it again.”

But the boy continued to stare at him, clueless. “Again?”

Sighing, Jason glanced behind him to see if the coast was clear. When no one appeared, he leaned in and whispered. “ _Shit_. Shit is a bad word.”

Clarity lit those blue eyes. “Ah shit bad word?”

“Sh,” Jason waved his hands in front the boy’s face. “Yes, don’t say it.”

“Alfed eat me?”

“What? No! Who gave you this idea? Alfred won’t eat you. He’ll just get mad and . . .” G _round me_ , he finished silently.

“Alfed mad at me?” the boy asked anxiously. “He _eat_ me?”

Rolling his eyes, Jason repeated. “No, he won’t eat you. He’ll just . . . take away your dessert.”

“Desert?” he repeated, mispronouncing the word. “That more bad than eat me?” The boy looked skeptical.

Jason nodded solemnly. “Trust me, that’s the worst. But he’ll only do that if you say those words.”

“The hell, ah shit,” the boy said.

“Sh! Stop it! You’re going to get both of us in trouble,” Jason told him. “God, where the hell did Bruce find you?”

The toddler threw his hands over his mouth and stared at Jason in shock. It was then the older boy realized what he said.

“Crap. Now see what you made me do?” he snapped.

“I sorry. Jason eat me?”

“I ought to,” Jason scowled at first, then smiled wickedly. “I ought to . . .” Laying the child on his back, Jay pretended to munch on the boy’s belly making loud smacking noises. “I’m gonna eat your belly, nom, nom, nom!”

The child squealed and began giggling. After a minute of this, Jason straightened, grinning as he helped the toddler sit up again. The boy held his side but grinned back in return.

“Jay not mad?”

The teen shrugged his shoulders. “Not anymore. I just ate you up.” When the child giggled, Jason laughed, too. “I wonder where you got that idea?”

Shrugged his shoulders, the child imitated Jason, but winced at the movement. “Ow,” he cried out. He huffed, looking resigned at the pain.

Jason found the attitude was disconcerting to see in a child so young. “What’s up with you? Alfred said you had a rough time last night.”

“I got boo-boos,” the toddler pouted.

“I see the ones on your face. How’d you get that?” Jason asked as he traced the below the deep scratch under the child’s eye.

“Don’t memor.”

Jason considered the boy in front of him, curious. He pulled the edge of the shirt away to peer at the shoulder. A bandage was covering a large section of the shoulder and part of the shoulder blade. He wondered who the asshole was that had hurt this kid. The boy’s big, blue eyes were slowly melting even Jason’s hard heart . . . and Jay didn’t even like kids.

“Hurt a lot, huh? I wonder if Alf gave you anything for the pain?”

“ _Alfred_ did not,” the man in question re-entering the room. “The boy has a head injury. While I didn’t detect signs of a concussion, I did not wish to risk aggravating one undiagnosed by medicating him – at least until after I had the opportunity to observe him for a time.”

Jason frowned. “That seems kind of mean. I mean, if there’s no signs of a concussion, why not give him something to take the edge off? He’s just a little guy.”

“He is, indeed,” Alfred told him. “And as a ‘little guy,’ some of the symptoms he experiences may differ from those found in an adult. As he didn’t appear in too much pain, I would prefer to err on the side of caution.”

“So, who is he? Where did Bruce find him? Why can’t he remember his own name?” Jason asked as the boy tried to climb down from the gurney to explore. He blocked the boy’s way. The cave floor was too cold, and the kid wasn’t wearing any socks.

“We do not know his name as yet, but we have a few ideas about who he might be.”

As Jason picked him up, Alfred extended his arms to take the child from him. The teen passed him over without complaint. He didn’t particularly like kids anyway.

The toddler patted Alfred’s face lightly, gaining the man’s attention.

“M’sorry,” the boy said sadly. “Alfed no eat me for dessert?”

Jason paled, slapping his hand over his face. He’d _known_ this was going to happen.

“Good heavens, child, whatever makes you say a thing like that.”

“Cuz I say, ‘ah shit’,” the boy confessed. “And ‘the hell’.”

Blinking, Alfred sent a disapproving glare in Jason’s direction, making the teen groan.

“It was an accident, Alf; I swear!” Jason scooted around to the far side of the gurney. “It just slipped out and then the kid started repeating it. I was trying to explain to him that it was a bad word and saying it would upset you.”

“Hm. And did you also tell him I would ‘ _eat_ ’ him should he say those bad words?”

“No!” Jason shook his head rapidly, “No, he came up with that all on his own. _Honest_!”

Looking back and forth between them, the boy said solemnly. “Ah shit a bad word.”

“Indeed, it is, child. We do not speak it in this house,” Alfred agreed, covering the child’s mouth with a finger. As wide eyes regarded Alfred earnestly, the butler found looking into them most unnerving because how familiar they felt to him.

“You mad?” the boy whispered.

“Certainly not,” Alfred assured him. Being angry with this tiny moppet was surely quite impossible. “Not if you are truly sorry and promise to never speak those bad words again.”

“I not say,” the boy said, patting his chest. “Pomise.”

* * *

Wearing a gray, long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of black sweats, Bruce walked in still rubbing his hair with a towel. Nodding to Jason, he already understood what the boy’s presence meant without explanation. Their newest member beamed up at him, holding his arms out to be taken.

Smiling, Bruce obliged, settling the toddler on his hip. “You’ll not say what, chum?” Bruce asked, having not heard the precious conversation.

“I not say ‘ah shit’ no more,” he told Bruce solemnly. “No ‘the hell’ no more, too.”

“Well, I should hope not,” he agreed. He glanced at the others. “What brought that up?”

The toddler answered. “Jay say ‘ah shit,’ ‘the hell’ bad words.” He placed his hand over Bruce’s mouth. “You no say.”

Tugging the sticky little hand down, Bruce murmured, “Oho, Jason said all that, did he?” Sending the teen an annoyed look, Bruce threw his damp towel at the older boy’s head. “Well, Jason would know, wouldn’t he?”

“Alfed not eat me,” he continued, but then perked up. “Jason eat me. It tickle!”

Bruce’s smile came back. “Did it?”

“Uh huh,” the boy nodded, getting excited. He paused. “Bwoose mad? Bwoose eat me?”

“No, I’m not mad with _you_ ,” Bruce clarified. “ _Jason_ , however, . . .” he added, sending the older boy another glare as he made his way over to the DNA sequencer. The analysis complete, the results were being printed.

“You eat Jason?” the child asked giggling.

Bruce had a hunch that the boy might want to see that happen.

“I’m not hungry at the moment, kiddo,” Bruce told him. “But maybe later.” Playfully, he chucked the child under the chin, and was rewarded with more giggles.

“Sir,” Alfred interrupted. “An alert came through a few minutes ago that you should be aware of.”

Glancing back, Bruce made his way into the main cavern and the Batcomputer. “Is there something in progress?” he asked.

He planned to insert the result of the boy’s blood test into the computer to see if there was a match. He fully expected to see Dick’s chart pop up as a result, either as probably match as the boy’s father or a complete match if the boy turned out to be Dick’s clone as he strongly suspected.

What he did not want to do was go back out tonight for an emergency. He needed to discover the identity of this child and then look for Dick. He didn’t want to alarm Alfred, but he was more than a little worried over Dick’s disappearance. The plan was to search hospital and police databases for anyone bearing Dick’s description that had been admitted or processed during the course of the night. With luck, the results would lead him to Dick, but if not, then, Batman would be heading back to Bludhaven - This time to initiate an investigation as to what happened to him and track the young man down.

“Nothing current. There was a situation that happened around midnight,” Alfred admitted. “The reports I’ve seen thus far are most upsetting, sir, and as it _did_ occur in Bludhaven, I thought . . .”

Bruce swiveled in his chair. “Bludhaven? And it popped up on the Batcomputer?”

“The city has declared a state of emergency and requested help from the Gotham City’s emergency services, including the police force. That is why the Batcomputer received it.”

Leaning against the wall, Jason listened in quietly. He didn’t want Bruce to remember he was down here and decide he needed to go upstairs. Bruce would do that on occasion when he found was something he didn’t want Jason to see.

“Something serious enough, it would have lured Dick from the apartment?” Bruce asked.

“Most certainly, I’m afraid, but surely not without his costume. Nor could I imagine him leaving a child unattended to do so.”

“This happened around midnight, you said. Was this before or after you received the phone call from Dick’s building’s superintendent?”

Alfred blinked. “Ah, I believe the event occurred before the phone call. Are you thinking that this might be connected to our current situation?”

A beep informed them the Batcomputer’s search was complete. It didn’t take any time at all, but then Bruce hadn’t expected it to. Pulling up the results, he saw it. Just as he suspected – there was a match: Richard Grayson - 100% DNA match.

“I knew it! The boy is Dick’s clone. Perhaps Dick discovered the child’s existence and went to retrieve him,” Bruce said.

Alfred frowned. “Sir, if I may ask, have you had the opportunity to look over Master Richard’s Nightwing uniform since returning to the cave?”

“Why do ask?” That idea that had been fluttering at the back of Bruce’s mind reasserted itself. “I gave it only a cursory examination while packing it up at Dick’s apartment. You suspect something? Tell me.”

The older man hesitated. “It seems impossible, sir. I’m certain it must be a coincidence.”

Narrowing his eyes, Bruce’s crazy idea grew in strength and stature.

“The damage to the uniform . . .” His gaze dropped to the dark-haired boy in his lap who so closely resembled his son. “Those markings match the boy’s injuries, don’t they? What are the odds that a nineteen-year-old crimefighter and a three-year-old toddler would sustain _identical_ injuries on the same night?”

“Improbable. These exact injuries?" Alfred shook his head. What they were discussing seemed inconceivable. “The odds must be astronomical.”

Curious as to what was going on, Jason spoke up. “What are you two talking about?”

Turning to the teenager, Bruce barked an order. “Jason, bring me a fingerprinting kit.”

“What?” The teen was confused. “Why?”

“Now, Jason!”

Startled by Bruce’s raised voice, Jason obeyed at a run.

“What are you doing, Master Bruce? You know as well as I that what you’re suggesting isn’t possible. It couldn’t be.”

“Could it not, Alfred? You brought up the matching injuries yourself,” Bruce challenged. “Just because you and I cannot conceive of a way to do something like this, doesn’t move it out of the realm of possibilities.”

“You’ve been sleep-deprived for too long, sir,” the older man insisted. “This cannot be anything other than a coincidence.”

“There is only one way to find out.” Bruce took the fingerprinting kit from Jason. “Fingerprints are not derived from DNA,” he explained. “If that were the case, then identical twins would share the same fingerprints and we know that’s not true. If this child is Dick’s clone as we suspect, no matter if he shares Dick’s exact DNA, the fingerprints won’t match.”

“Wait.” Jason looked confused. “You’re thinking that the kid is a clone of this Dick Grayson character? Who is this guy and why’s he so important?”

Ignoring Jason’s inquiry, Bruce prepared the kit. Sitting the child on the working station, Bruce soothed him. “This won’t hurt a bit, chum. This is kind of like finger-painting.”

“What finger-paining?”

“Finger-Painting,” Bruce corrected absently.

Coating the boy’s index finger, he then placed it carefully on the sheet, rolling it from one side to the other. As he proceeded to collect all the prints from one hand, the child watched him work, fascinated, but was when no other pictures were made. Alfred was there, before the boy could stick his fingers on the instruments or in his mouth, wiping it with a moist towelette.

“I probably could have settled this with just one print, but I thought it best to be absolutely sure,” Bruce told them, scanning the prints into the computer’s database.

Taking the child from Bruce while he worked, Alfred walked over to Jason as they waited. It didn’t take any time at all – a few seconds at most. The screen brought the child’s fingerprint up on one half and its match on the other. Each identifier was clearly marked on both prints, leaving no doubt.

“Dear God, . . .” Bruce shook his head in disbelief.

Stunned, Alfred, stared at the child in his arms. The boy, his thumb tucked into his mouth, blinked sleepy eyes at the older man.

Walking over, Bruce stopped in front of the boy; his big hands gentle as he cupped the gently rounded cheek. He had struck this face a month ago; the knowledge sent a stab of regret through his chest. Thankfully, no sign of that terrible day was visible on that baby-soft complexion.

What the computer was telling him was impossible. Although he had tested for this, never in his wildest dreams did Bruce believe this would be the outcome, but he had taken the print himself and the computer didn’t lie.

 _But how_?

“ _Dick_? Is that really you?” he asked as he searched for some indication in those eyes that this was the boy he had raised over the last eleven years. “Do you know who I am?”

It was his son’s blue eyes that blinked at him with a sweet innocence Bruce hadn’t seen in a decade. That amazing cerulean-blue that Bruce had never seen on another person.

Tugging his thumb out of his mouth, his boy answered him with a question of his own.

“Who Dick?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REACTIONS?? 
> 
> Again, keep in mind, this has never happened before in this "universe," so it takes Bruce a while to come to a certain impossible conclusion to the identity of the little boy he discovered.
> 
> So, what do you think? Are you enjoying this story so far?


	7. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason learns the guy who kicked his ass a month before is now an adorable three-year-old who is wearing one of his T-shirts as a diaper while Bruce learns about the phenomenon that devastated Bludhaven the same night Nightwing was transformed and begins to question if the two events could somehow be related.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Language

“Who Dick?”

" _You_ are," Bruce answered. "Your name is Dick Grayson. You don't remember anything at all?"

The child shook his head. Eyelids drooping, he was quickly losing interest in what the man was saying. His thumb went back into his mouth, his finger across the bridge of his nose. His head began nodding as the little guy tried to fight of sleep.

"Why don’t you take him while I'll head upstairs to ready a room,” Alfred said.

As soon as Dick was in Bruce’s arms, he laid his head on his shoulder with a sigh; the boy’s eyes closing at last.

"The poor lad's exhausted," Alfred noted, rubbing the child’s back gently. “Will you be okay with him down here by yourself?”

 _This child is Dick!_ His son come back to him, but as a child even younger than he had been when Bruce had first taken him in. The stress and worry over the past year, the fear for him from the last month, all eased in that moment. For whatever reason he had been changed into a toddler, for the moment at least, Dick was safe. . . and _home_.

Thinking that his nineteen-year-old wouldn’t have consented to cuddling, Bruce found he was loathed to give him up, even to Alfred. He had no idea if this change was temporary or if it was a permanent thing. He decided he would hold onto the boy while he could. Bruce nodded his head in answer to Alfred’s question.

"Yes, we'll be fine," Bruce murmured softly. "You can put him in his old room for now."

His eyes knowing, Alfred nodded as he turned away. He paused to glance to the other person in the room. "Master Jason. Do you wish to accompany me, or do you wish to stay down here?"

Jason was gaping at The Batman cuddling the kid like he was a baby just dropped off by the stork. He shook his head vigorously. "What? No way! I want someone to explain this to me, like right now!"

Storming over to Bruce, Jay glared down at the child. The kid looked even younger and more innocent asleep than he did awake.

"Who is that?" he demanded to know loudly, ignoring the shushing sounds the two men were making. "Who the he- heck is Richard, - Dick or whatever his name is - Grayson?" he asked, pointing at the name on the computer screen. "You act like this is your long-lost kid or something. You act like he's . . ."

Suddenly paling, Jason stepped back.

"Wait . . . Wait, th-that's _him_ , isn't it?” He pointed as the sleeping child. “This kid is that guy who came here last month. Nightwing, he said his name was. The first Robin. _Are you kidding me?"_ Jason stared at the boy in shock.

"Yes, he is," Bruce confirmed as he turned back towards the computer.

Hesitating by the stairs, Alfred wondered if he should intervene before deciding to leave it for his employer to handle.

"B-But you punched him. You told him to get out."

Bruce flinched - actually flinched. "That was a mistake," he admitted quietly. "It should never have happened."

"So, . . . what? Are you going to take him back in, just like that? Shouldn't, you know, return him to his parents or something? I mean, you can't just keep him."

"Actually, Jason, I can," Bruce answered. "Dick's parents died when he was a child. Alfred and I are the only family he had now."

"Maybe Social Services can . . ."

"Jason, stop."

"But . . ."

"I said, stop."

"You don't even like him anymore," Jason blurted out desperately.

Bruce turned back to face him. "Whatever troubles Dick and I have had in the past; they would have been resolved eventually. There _is_ no problem, no trouble, that could make me turn my back on Dick when he needs help . . . and _you_ would not respect me if there was."

Pacing back and forth in his agitation, Jason threw his arms up in the air. "But he's like a _baby_!"

"Yes. He is," Bruce agreed. "And that means he needs us now more than ever. Jason, I don't know what happened to him yet, but I will care for him until it has been undone and he can take care of himself once more."

Pressing a few keys, Bruce brought up the police reports that Alfred had told him about. He hoped it might give him a clue as to what Dick had been up to prior to his being turned into a child.

"How long will _that_ be?" Jason asked, scowling at this change to his world.

Pivoting in his chair, Bruce carefully addressed his newest ward. "It will _be_ for as long as it is necessary," he told the teenager.

Jason stood there, incredulous. "Bu . . . But what if the change is permanent and he can't be changed back? That could be _forever_."

"As I said, for however long it takes. But forever is a long time, Jason. I would say fourteen or fifteen years would be a more reasonable expectation," Bruce told him before he returned his attention to the matter at hand.

" _Oh my God!_ _Are you fucking **kidding** me_?" Jason yelled.

Startled by Jason’s yell, Dick raised his head, taking a stuttering breath before settling back into sleep with a sigh. As he snuggled, tucking his face into the curve of Bruce's neck, the boy resumed sucking his thumb. His exhaustion ensuring that the child remained mostly undisturbed.

Swinging around, Bruce glared at Jason. "You will watch your language, young man. Now, if you wish to remain down here, you will not wake him up. Am I understood?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Jason glared at the boy even as he shrugged his shoulders. "So, what do you think happened to him?" he asked sullenly.

"At the moment, I have no clue. I've never heard of such a thing, had no idea that age-reversal was even remotely possible," he told him. "I'm hoping that scanning these reports will shed a little light on whatever happened in Bludhaven last night and provide us with some a clue as to who, or what, might have caused this." Bruce said, turning his attention back to the screen in front of him.

After bringing up a Bludhaven news station, Bruce patted the boy's back lightly, speaking to the child in a soft voice. "Don't worry, Dickie. I'm going to fix this for you, chum."

* * *

As the reports came up on the screen, Bruce went silent. The news reporters were talking about some major event. Normally, Jason would read the reports over the man's shoulder but this morning, he sulked instead. He couldn't believe this toddler was the first Robin; the guy that had humiliated him in front of Batman. Looking at the kid now, cuddling and sucking his thumb, Jason rolled his eyes. 

_Just figures that guy would be a thumb sucker_ , he thought, scowling.

_How the hell does something like this even happen?_ _God, growing up was hard enough the first time around. To think you finally get childhood licked and are just about to get a little respect when BAM!_ _Some asshole waves a magic wand, or some shit, and you’ve got to start all over again_.

Annoyed, Jason leaned against the wall. _Dick Grayson, heh_! _The nickname fits_ , the teen thought uncharitably, although he was pretty sure when it was given to the kid it probably didn't mean the same thing as it did now.

His mind drifted back to their first meeting a month ago, before, whatever this thing was, had happened to him. That meeting wasn't nearly as friendly as today's had been. Nightwing, he'd been calling himself then. At least he had grown into some real pants and not that green leotard with the vest.

Jason made a face. He certainly hadn't been making fun of the Robin costume when he had tried it on. He had wanted nothing more than to wear that outfit and those colors while swinging down into a crowd of punks and start knocking heads.

He had been improving, too. Bruce had told him that earlier just that day. Jason had been so proud. Getting any kind of praise out of the Bat was like getting water out of a rock. Always with him it was, ' _Again, Jason. Do it again_ ,' or ' _Robin could manage it in half that time. Do it again_ ,' or ' _If you want to earn the right to wear that uniform, you have to do better'_.

 _Do it better_ . . . He had started to think that Robin wasn't human or maybe Bruce was remembering the original Robin as being better than he actually had been. But looking at the original Robin now made Jason think that maybe he wasn't comparing well to the guy for different reasons. If he were right, then maybe Jason would _never_ compare, no matter how good he got . . .

Tilt his head, Jay watched Bruce's attention being split between reading transcribed reports of the police and the reporter on the news station. The man was just as intent as usual; the scowl on his face just as fierce but . . . Bruce was holding the three-year-old close, rubbing circles on the kid's back with his free hand, only stopping whenever he needed to scroll or change the screen. But then, back it would come. He would even pet the child's hair occasionally.

When the realization finally hit him, Jason's mouth fell open.

 _Oh my God! He **loved** him!_ Bruce _loved_ Dick Grayson like . . . like the boy was his own _kid_ or something! Jason remembered Bruce telling Alfred to put the boy in his old room. 

_So, that meant the guy used to live here._ _That would explain a lot_. _Bruce must have raised the kid himself_.

If Jason remembered right, Robin had been a little kid when he had first started, like nine or ten-years-old, younger than Jason was today. 

_But his name is Grayson, not Wayne, meaning the guy was Bruce's ward, the same as I am now_. _So, how did he come to live here when his folks kicked off instead of going to the orphanage or some foster family?_

Perhaps, the better question was, if Bruce loved him so much, why did he fire him? And why the hell did he hit him and tell him to get out last time he was here? Bruce had never hit Jason yet. Well, not counting sparring, but then that was the whole point of that activity, wasn't it?

That night, after Nightwing had left the cave, Jason had breathed a sigh of relief. Only Batman spun around and yelled at him, too.

"Take that uniform off now, Jason," Batman had barked at him. "You're not ready."

"B-But, you said . . ." Jason had stammered, unsure why Batman was so angry at him. Hadn’t he had told Jason just an hour earlier that he had improved?

Sure, Jason had come back down after being sent upstairs for the night, but they both knew that he was in training to wear this uniform, to take up the mantle of Robin. So, what, that Jason wasn't quite ready for the streets yet. He would be eventually, then the uniform would be _his_. Why _couldn't_ he wear it now?

"I don't care what I said," Batman had snarled at him. "You are _not_ ready for that uniform. Nor will you put it on again until _I_ decide whether or not you have earned the right to wear it."

Jason had been stunned. His disobedience hadn't been over anything actually important. Why had Batman made such a big deal out of it?

The only reason Batman was mad at him then, Jason had decided, wasn't because he snuck back down to the cave and put on the suit without permission. It had been because the first Robin had returned and made him look bad.

"It's because of _him_ , isn't it?" Jason had snapped back, indicating the path that Nightwing had taken. "Because you think _he's_ so much better than me? Is that it?"

"He _is_ better than you," Batman had told him in a low growl. "And everything he said tonight about your performance was correct. So, if you ever want to wear that uniform again, you will start by obeying me this instant."

Stalking toward the Batmobile, Batman had left Jason standing there without a backward glance. Temper exploding, Jay had yelled at the man's retreating back.

"Oh yeah? Well, if he's so great, then why'd the hell did you fire him? Huh? If he's so perfect, why didn't you keep him on as your partner? Or did **_he_** leave **_you_** _?"_

The Bat had kept going, however, climbing into his big, black car.

"If he's so terrific then why the hell did you bother with me?" Jason had screamed over top of the roar of the Batmobile’s engine. "Why the fuck am I here?"

Batman hadn't answered that night. Nor did Bruce bring it up again. Honestly, Jason was glad he hadn't. As much as he hated to admit it, Jay was afraid of the some of the answers to those questions.

Training had become twice as hard after that, each time lasting twice as long. Alfred had noticed but what Bruce had told him Jason didn't hear. The butler had simply left without another word.

Everything had been going so well before that night. Everything had been perfect until _he_ had walked in and screwed it all up.

Bruce used to talk to Jason, sometimes allowing him to hang out afterwards while he researched cases but after that night, no more. Now, Jay would be sent upstairs with orders to do his homework and go to bed. Meanwhile, Bruce would sit at the computer, working late into the night on something, searching for someone - that was all he knew at the time.

 _Now_ , it was obvious. All this past month, Bruce had been searching for Dick Grayson. Had it been because he suddenly wanted him back as his partner?

Jason snorted. Well, the guy was back, for all the good it would do him. No matter how wonderful Grayson was, no matter how perfect a partner, the guy was a three-year-old toddler again and a fucking long way from ever fitting into his old uniform.

Pushing off the wall, Jay stomped angrily up the stairs, heading to the manor. He missed Bruce's gasp, nor saw him sit up in shock. He was so angry he wouldn't have cared even had he noticed. Whatever - The one thing Jason was not, though, was jealous. There was left to be jealous of. His rival was a baby, for fuck's sake!

_No, the brat couldn’t beat me now even if he wanted to._

* * *

Pulling up the police reports, Bruce opened another window for Bludhaven's morning news reports. Like Gotham, this time of day the new would normally center around weather and traffic. Today was not a normal day, however.

 _Something had happened last night_.

The twenty-something blonde on the screen, obviously used to puff pieces, looked terrified. Leaning back in his chair, Bruce listened to her report as his eyes scanned the earliest police documents filed.

**[" _There are still no explanations behind the strange deaths that have occurred overnight in Bludhaven. While authorities believe this to be some type of virulent illness, foul play has not been ruled out, but so far, no terrorist organization has claimed responsibility for what is now being described as an apocalyptic event._**

**" _The Centers for Disease Control headquarters in Atlanta have been notified and the first officials from the organization have arrived in the city though not yet on the scene. As you can see behind me_ ," **the reporter indicated with a wave of a shaky hand, **" _it’s absolute chaos, but we’ve been assured that every precaution is being taken as emergency personnel and volunteers continue to knock on doors, checking on the health and welfare of residents throughout the affected area._**

**" _The death toll, in the meantime, continues to grow. So far, there are 387 confirmed dead, and that number is expected to keep rising as the morning progresses. As far as we know, the only survivors are a handful of movie goers and several witnesses that were on the street when the area was stricken, apparently simultaneously around midnight. It has been rumored that here in front of the Palace theater, victims of the strange and deadly phenomenon were standing on one side of the street while those on the other side remained completely unaffected._**

**" _Gotham City, our nearest neighbor, has been assisting Bludhaven’s police and emergency workers by sending volunteers to aid in the humanitarian efforts . ._** _._ **"**

**“ _City officials are requesting that citizens remain calm, and in their homes, and do not attempt to leave the city during the course of the investigation._ ]**

The news correspondent droned on, repeating her previous report.

 _Dear God,_ . . . Bruce felt shaken by what he was hearing. _Three hundred and eighty-seven people confirmed dead all in an instant_? This ‘phenomenon,’ whatever it was, appeared to him as a deliberate act but what biological weapon could be both so devastating and this specific? Once released, there would be no containing it; it would not stop at a street corner or only affect certain seats in a public theater. There was no information currently as to the radius of the affected area.

Was it a coincidence that this 'attack', if it could be called an attack, happened on the same night within an hour or so of the incident involving his son? The odds that these two events were related seemed enormous and, at the moment, he didn't even have enough information to build a working theory. But his gut was insisting there was a link between them – somewhere.

The earliest reports coming in had been nothing but confusion and gibberish. The officers involved had no idea what was happening, why, or who was behind it. They had called in for backup repeatedly without ever identifying the threat. The later reports were hardly any better; a strange woman that looked like she had just climbed out of the grave that showed up in several individual reports; one officer describing her to dispatch as a zombie. Numerous others reported a flock of large, black birds attacking the officers out of nowhere . . .

The only thing he could find connecting all of these different reports had been fear; each had at some point or other mentioned an overwhelming sense of terror or dread, as if each man or woman were being stalked by death itself while answering the call in the vicinity of the phenomenon. He wanted to speak to the officers involved, but all were dead now - victims to the same phenomena that had drained the life and vitality of nearly four hundred of Bludhaven’s citizenry.

Had it not been for the mention of the woman, Bruce might have been inclined to blame this on Scarecrow but a quick check into Arkham's security tapes confirmed that Dr. Crane was still in his holding cell at the time of the incident. Scarecrow was known to use trained crows on occasion but never had he used someone dressed as a zombie. However, a zombie could have been part of a hallucination caused by exposure to the fear gas, but usually hallucinations from the gas are unique to the victim, not a shared delusion amongst a group.

His eyes strayed to the news report again. The sound was off, but the subtitles were up. Thirty minutes from the initial report and the death toll was nearing five hundred people.

 _Five hundred? I_ _f Nightwing was present during this, then how the hell did he survive when so many others had perished?_ _Why, too, was he changed to a child rather than killed outright?_ What was different about him? Bruce rubbed his eyes, blowing out a breath in frustration. _Or is what happened to Dick unrelated after all?_ Damn, but he dated second guessing himself.

He returned his attention to the latest reports that were still pouring in.

People dead in their beds – young and old, parents and children, rich, poor, single, couples. It didn’t seem to matter; hell, even their pets were gone. Every living being. No one had been spared. No one, that is, but Dick . . . _Wait!_ And one police officer?

His eyes narrowing as Bruce caught the single reference. A beat cop by the name of Jimmy Li. This information hadn't been released to the media yet, probably for the better as the officer would be swarmed by reporters. He read that Li's partner had died as had all the others, but Li had been found huddling in terror in the backseat of his patrol car with every round in his service revolver spent. The report stated that Li had been removed from the scene quickly, before the attack on the newly arriving officers by the birds. The description of the birds sounded too large to be crows, even for a raven, and he wondered if fear had caused the reports to be exaggerated.

Glancing down at the sleeping child, Bruce considered everything he had learned. _Could there have been two separate supernatural events taking place in Bludhaven within an hour of one another without some unifying factor_? _A link of some kind?_

He caught himself, frowning at his line of thinking. Why had he thought ‘supernatural’? Magic was usually the last place he looked to because, in nearly every event, the results end up having some basis in scientific advancement. Alien tech, advanced biological weaponry, machines from the future could account for 98% of all of what had been initially unexplainable occurrences. In truth, Bruce had never heard of a machine, a pill, or a laser capable of reversing the aging process more than superficially – certainly not to this extent.

Dick's transformation was anything but superficial. However, just because Bruce hadn't heard of the technology before didn't mean that it didn't exist. He just had to find it and figure out a way to reverse the process.

First things first - he would need to speak with Jimmy Li and find out what exactly had happened to him and his partner. With luck, Li’s account would provide him with a place to start.

* * *

Alfred found the pair exactly in the same position he had left them. Bruce watching the news as reports of more deaths continued to pour in. Alfred had been listening to the news as he changed the sheets and baby-proofed Richard's old room for him.

 _Horrible stuff, that_. _Just_ _the idea that all those deaths could be caused by some airborne contagion_ . . . He shuddered.

The media were taking an already bad situation and were making it worse by theorizing the cause without being in possession of all the facts. Alfred had finally had to turn it off, but he still made certain that the windows were closed and the HEPA filtration systems were working properly to clean the air in both the manor and the cave beneath.

 _One cannot be too careful in these situations. Wind direction could change at any time. And if it is airborne . . . Well, better safe than dead, I always say_.

Coming up on the two, Alfred smiled at the sight of Master Bruce cradling the boy much as a father might cradle his son. Heaven forbid he ever make the comparison aloud. The disparity in the masters’ sizes had always been apparent but never more than it was at this moment. Richard, as a three-year-old, was so small and helpless, and Alfred's heart squeezed with both concern and affection.

"Do you plan to get any sleep?" he asked softly.

Blinking Bruce stretched, careful to not disturb the boy in his arms. "Alfred, I need to go back to Bludhaven."

Alarmed, he protested. "To what end, sir? Surely, whatever is happening cannot possibly be connected to what happened to Master Richard."

"My instincts says otherwise," Bruce told him, indicating the screen. "Something this big? If Dick were there, you _know_ he would have been right in the middle of it. Perhaps, this was something he was investigating that he wasn’t able to handle on his own. I am positive our answers lie there." The news team was filming as a swarm of police, forensic, and medical personnel rushed into apartment buildings and brownstone homes in an effort to collect and identify the remains of victims within.

“Surely, Master Richard would have called for help if that had been the case.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. “With the way things ended between us last time?”

His guilt rose up again, ready to choke him. He hoped that Dick would have known, no matter their personal relationship, he could have still come to Batman for assistance. Even if he hadn’t felt comfortable asking Batman, Dick had the Justice League should he need them. Hell, even his friends in the Teen Titans . . . No one would have refused, had he just asked.

Unless . . . Unless Nightwing chose to go it alone in an effort to prove himself to Batman.

No. Bruce closed his eyes, his arms tightening protectively around the child, gently still in order not to disturb his rest.

"You haven't slept well for a month. Last night, not at all.”

“Whatever did this, Alfred, is too dangerous to leave alone. Whoever or whatever is behind this, we don’t know if or when it plans to strike again. I cannot afford to wait.”

“At six-thirty in the morning, what could you possibly hope to accomplish there as a civilian?" Alfred scoffed. “If you must go out, at least rest first. Your mind will be sharper for it. I agree; this is too important for you to be at anything less than your best.”

"Fine. You're right. I know, you're right - as usual.” Sighing, Bruce rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Call Lucius for me, Alfred. Tell him I'm taking some time off, getting away from the office for a while. Give him whatever excuse seems good to you. Also,” he added, “tell him to see what kind of assistance Bludhaven needs and ask him to arrange for it on behalf of The Wayne Foundation."

"Of course, sir. Very generous of you," Alfred nodded.

"It’s necessary. This . . . attack, whatever it is, happened on a massive scale," Bruce told him. "The city going to need all the help it can get."

"Very good, sir," Alfred agreed. The epidemic or terrorist attack was indeed extensive, taking up, estimates have it, an area approximately a kilometer in size. "Do you believe it could be a biological weapon? It is unlike anything I’ve ever heard of. Only the living has been affected. I’ve heard no reports of damage to buildings as one might suspect of a normal bombing."

"My first guess would be some type of alien tech," Bruce admitted, "but the Watchtower reports show nothing indicating the presence of ships, alien or otherwise, within the inner solar system, let alone earth itself. There was an energy surge that occurred at around the same time, but the energy originated on earth, not space."

"Is the Justice League offering assistance?" Alfred worried. “If they do, wouldn’t they expect Master Batman to investigate since this happened so close to Gotham City?”

"The offer is on the table, but so far there has been no indication of radiation or fallout that one might expect from an enormous wave of energy. This attack or outbreak appears self-contained. They are waiting for me at this juncture. I suggested that they allow me to take the lead on this and call for assistance should I need it."

“In that case, may I suggest that you do not make the same mistake by waiting too long to ask for help.”

Nodding, he agreed. “It is too early, and we know too little. The League would be more likely to get in the way or even destroy vital clues in their efforts to help.”

Standing, Bruce adjusted Richard in his arms. His lips lifted slightly as he looked down at the sleeping child. "He's hasn't moved at all. He's obviously exhausted from this latest adventure."

"Shall I take him for you now, sir," Alfred offered. "I will put him down so you can sleep."

Bruce hesitated. "No. No, thank you, Alfred, but I think I'd like to do it. I'm going up now, anyway."

"He _is_ hard to resist at this age." Alfred said, smiling knowingly. In truth, the boy had been difficult to resist at any age, in the butler's unbiased opinion. "How ever did his parents manage to raise that boy without spoiling him rotten, I wonder?"

"We missed so much of his life . . ." Bruce murmured. "I never actually felt jealous of his parents until right this moment."

Snorting elegantly, Alfred raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Poppycock!"

"I beg your pardon?" Surprised, Bruce stared at the man.

"You heard me quite well," the older man challenged. "You'll do well to remember that I've live in this house also. I remember several times of finding you, standing in his doorway, during his tenure with us. You seemed to take comfort in watching him sleep.”

“Yes, and I’m certain had Dick known of my proclivities; he would have been ‘creeped out’ by it. Thank you for never telling on me, old friend.” Bruce cracked a smile at the memory.

“You were always quite enamored with the boy,” Alfred smiled in return. “I believe the same can be said of you now as well. I doubt those feelings have ever changed, even during these last few months."

He turned to lead the way up the stairs to the manor above. "In any case, I took the liberty of childproofing Master Richard's bedroom. It seemed prudent to do so as we do not know how long he will remain in this form. I will ensure the other rooms we frequent are done as well."

"Yes, I can see that would be wise as he apparently has no memories of his previous life whatsoever. He speaks and acts as the toddler he appears to be." Bruce agreed, following Alfred up the steps to the study.

“As to that, I will be contacting Dr. Thompkins and asking her to come by for a visit.”

This startled him. "Leslie? I thought you said Dick's injuries were superficial?"

"Indeed. I do not suspect any serious issues to crop up. It isn’t that the young sir requires further medical assistance, mind you. I am hoping the doctor would assist in helping us discover the method of the boy's transformation as well as determining Master Richard’s biological age. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but the boy’s speech is on par with that of a much younger child.”

Bruce gazed at the boy worriedly. “Do you think whatever transformed him could have caused this? Are you saying you think this isn’t just an effect of a concussion or traumatic memory loss, then?”

“We’ve haven’t had time to evaluate him properly, you understand. I confess that it has been some years since I spent any length of time with a toddler.”

“You are not making my ability to fall asleep an easy task, are you?”

Alfred was immediately contrite. “Oh dear, I am sorry, sir. It was not my intention to worry you excessively.”

Bruce raised a hand. “I doubt you could increase my level of worry substantially at this point, old friend. If you think it prudent to have Leslie examine Dick, then please call her.”

“There _is_ another more practical reason I am calling on Dr. Thompkins to visit. I am rather hoping she can pick up some clothing and a few essentials a child Richard’s age might require." He closed the clock over the door to the cave. "I thought it wise to avoid rumors that Bruce Wayne is furnishing a nursery. The press wouldn’t be nearly as interested should Dr. Thompkins be seen purchasing items for a young child than if it were you or I."

Nodding, Bruce relented. "I must be tired, old friend. I never considered that, but you’re right. Dick will need something more to wear than Jason’s extra T-shirts, even if he’s only in this condition for a few days. Hopefully, we’ll be able to discover what caused his transformation, reverse-engineer it, and return him to normal."

They fell silent at they climbed the stairs that led to the family’s wing. Despite the time of day, the hallway was dim. There was no direct sunlight here as bedrooms lined both sides of the hall; the only illumination coming from the wall sconces positioned here and there. The three chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were unused at the moment.

"Well, Master Richard should be safe enough in his room in the meantime," Alfred assured him as they approached the room. "Are you sure I cannot take him for you?"

"If you don’t mind, Alfred, I think I would like to do this. It's . . . been a little while," he said, without meeting the older man's eyes. “You understand.”

Pleasure warmed the older man’s heart. "Of course, sir. Tis only fitting, you being the lad's father and all."

Shoulders stiffening, Bruce hesitated. "I never meant to replace John Grayson in his life, Alfred. That man is still his father. I'm just . . ."

" ** _You_** are his father, Master Bruce," Alfred interrupted. "You may not share his DNA, but you share his heart. That boy has always loved and respected you. He’s sought only to make you proud as much as any young man does for the man who raised him. Isn't it time you accepted that fact?"

"A father's place is sacred . . ."

"Yes. It most assuredly is." The butler met his gaze. “Master Richard’s heart is more than large enough for both you and John Grayson to reside.”

No matter how it happened, Richard was returned to them, this was an opportunity for seal the rift and heal the wounds they both bore. Having said his piece, Alfred changed the subject to another concern.

"Sir, before I go, if I might inquire . . . How did Master Jason take the news?”

“Jason?”

"Yes, sir. I was curious to learn his reaction to the news that our newest charge is, in truth, his predecessor. From what I understand, their first meeting was not at all congenial."

"He took it as well as could be expected, all considering." Bruce murmured, remembering the glimpse of the teenager’s temper he had seen. The boy had apparently gotten over it. Bruce hadn’t even heard him leave the cave afterwards.

"He wasn’t jealous?" Alfred considered this skeptically.

"I can’t imagine why he would be.”

“No. You are an amazing detective, Master Bruce, but in some ways, you remain quite obtuse.”

“You’re overreacting. We’re all upset of the events of the night but Jason’s a tough kid. He’s resilient. Whatever he’s going through right now, I’m sure he'll get over it."

The butler wasn't so sure. He had been in Richard’s room across the hall from Jason’s when he heard the teen’s door slam. It had been quite jarring. "Hm," he hummed, doubtfully. "You have quite a bit of faith in the boy's maturity level, do you?"

Bruce looked over at him with surprise. "And you don't?

"Master Jason has had a difficult road to travel. He has only recently found a bit of security in his young life since moving here. I fear he worries that with Master Richard's return, particularly while in this form, that he could usurp Jason’s place in your affections."

"Nonsense," Bruce disagreed as he walked into Dick's room. He had expected the room to smell musty, but Alfred obviously had been keeping the room aired out as part of in his weekly schedule. "I don't think you give Jason enough credit. He will be fine. They both will." Bruce told him confidently.

From the doorway, Alfred took a moment to watch Master Bruce settle Master Richard on the bed. He had always hoped that Bruce would get this obsession out of his system and settle down. The manor was quite large, and the butler had, at one time, imagined the home and its grounds to be filled with the laughter of children. Part of him still held that hope that one day the house could recover from the tragedy of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s murder. Indeed, watching Bruce instinctively comfort the child, only confirmed Alfred’s belief in the younger man’s ability to be a wonderful father if he would only allow himself the pleasure.

You do not give yourself enough credit either, Master Bruce," Alfred murmured softly from his spot by the door. "You are the world to those boys. You have been from the day you found each of them and plucked them out of their despair. It is too bad that you’ve never once pulled your head out of your war long enough to have realized it." Leaving the door ajar, Alfred moved back down the hall to make the phone call to Dr. Thompkins before heading off for his own power nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REACTIONS??

**Author's Note:**

> REACTIONS?
> 
> I realize that there was a whole lot of OCs going on. Although this story will have more than the average amount of OCs, they are, with the exception of a couple, fleeting but necessary. I promise to make every one of them interesting during their brief stints. 
> 
> All the gods and goddess mentioned in this chapter are taken from Celtic mythology with the exception of "The End of Everything", who is my own construct. She was created because I couldn't find a god that suited my purposes (and trust me, I looked). Morrigan was the closest but even she wouldn't do for what I wanted. 
> 
> Also, just to clarify: the Celtic symbol of death is NOT a raven but, for this story I needed for it to be so, in this AU it does. (In the real world, the image for death is three connecting swirls which, despite its simplicity, doesn't lend itself well to the written word.
> 
> In recent years, the terms BC and AD has been replaced with the terms CE (Common Era) and BCE (Before the Common Era). BCE can be referred to "before the time of Christ" up until the beginning of the 1st century.


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